Never Done
by thewandcrafter
Summary: This is a Snarry, meaning a story of a romantic, adult relationship between Harry and Severus Snape. If this idea bothers you, please don't read it. Snape recovers from Nagini's poisonous attack, but suffers some damage to the parts of the brain responsible for emotional self-control... How will Harry cope with a strangely emotional Snape? Plot in process.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Everything in the Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers. The plot of this work of fanfiction belongs to me, and I alone am responsible for its content. No galleons are being made from this work.

* * *

**Never Done**  
Chapter One

"Should we cut his hair?" Professor McGonagall asked as Harry stroked his hand repeatedly over the long, silky locks that framed the pale, still face. It had been nearly three months since the battle… nearly three months since Snape had been attacked by Nagini, since Voldemort tried to kill him, in the ignorant, vain hope that by doing so, he would attain mastery over the Elder Wand.

"It would be like cutting Sampson's hair, don't you think?" Harry answered softly, his eyes on the sleeping man's face.

"You should get some sleep."

"I want to stay a while longer – read to him."

"Harry…"

He looked up, an apologetic smile on his face. "Don't, Professor. I know what you're going to say, but…"

"You need to move on, Harry. We don't know when he –"

"I want to be here when he does," he interrupted with quiet determination. "I won't leave him, Professor. I owe him so much."

McGonagall studied him a moment, but he didn't notice, already turned back to the sleeping man, a fond look on his face. She finally reached across the bed to pat the young man's hand. "We all do, Potter. We all do."

Harry barely noted the click of the door to the infirmary closing as she left him alone with Snape. Over the weeks and months, the once-crowded infirmary had slowly emptied of the injured, until now, nearly three months after the battle, just this one casualty remained. Snape hadn't been taken to St. Mungo's because the magic of the castle aided his recovery, tied as he had been to _her_ survival as well.

Harry contemplated the face, so well-known, and yet so unfamiliar. He knew it was because he was seeing Snape through different eyes. Finally, sighing, he gave the man's shoulder a gentle pat, careful of his wounds, and moved to the other side of the bed, where he took a book off the top of a stack on the nightstand. He waved over a chair and let it settle quietly to the floor, settled himself in it for the night, opened the book and began to read to the silent man at his side.

…oooOOOooo…

"Harry Potter," a voice said in his ear, and a hand shook him gently. "It is time to wake up, Master." Harry struggled to a sitting position and groaned. He'd once again forgotten to transfigure the chair into something more comfortable for the night. He'd pay for that with a stiff neck and sore back all day, and as he would not admit to having spent the night here – yet again – he could not ask Madam Pomfrey for a healing potion or spell.

"Thank you, Kreacher. You can go back," he said quietly.

"Yes, Master." The house elf hesitated. "There will be a hot bath in Master's rooms," he said.

"Professor Snape's rooms," Harry corrected automatically, his eyes already on the man in front of him, searching hopefully, as they did every morning, for some sign that Snape's condition had improved. Finding none, he sighed and turned back to the elf. "Thank you, Kreacher. I'll be down in a few minutes."

The elf bowed and snapped his fingers, disapparating back to the kitchens. Harry turned back to the bed. He smoothed Snape's hair away from his face, and tangled his fingers in it. _What are you doing, Harry?_ He didn't answer that. "I'll be back, Professor. I just need to shower and change and show my face in the Great Hall – but I'll be back." He watched the slack face, the only sign of life the rhythmic rise and fall of the man's chest and the reassuring green glow of the spell that monitored his condition. Ironic that the color that indicated he still lived was the same as that of the killing curse and the venom that threatened to kill him, working its inexorable way through his system in the hours between the attack and when his body was retrieved from the Shrieking Shack.

Harry leaned over him until his face was mere inches from Snape's, until he could feel the soft exhalations of the man's breath on his cheek.

"You have to come back, Professor. I'm not done with you yet." _Please come back_, he thought, and smoothed his fingers across the man's forehead daringly, secure in the knowledge that Snape would never know. After whispering once more, "I'll be back," he turned, banished the chair, and made his way through the lightening corridors to the dungeons, whispering a password at a door guarded by entwined snakes, and entered Severus Snape's old quarters.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Everything in the Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers. The plot of this work of fanfiction belongs to me, and I alone am responsible for its content. No galleons are being made from this work.

* * *

**Never Done**  
Chapter Two

Slughorn was gone. The battle had taken the last burst of strength and energy from the man, and after seeing to the end of the year and the immediate potions needs of the wounded and weary, he settled for semi-retirement once more, agreeing to supply Poppy with whatever she needed on a weekly basis until Snape recovered enough to do so – assuming he'd want to, of course. McGonagall's pleas that he return to teach potions went unheeded. He could not face the Slytherins, he said, let alone the rest of the students, needed time to wrap his mind around what had happened over the course of the last two years. Besides, he had said, he'd only planned to stay one year, and it had been two. McGonagall was desperate to find another potions instructor, though she'd confided to Harry that she dearly hoped Snape would agree to resume that post once he recovered.

The Board of Governors was determined to rescind Snape's appointment as Headmaster, before they heard Harry's testimony, but even that did not sway their final decision, though they looked chastened and had vociferously stated their recognition of his heroism. They could not get past what he had "allowed" to happen while Headmaster, particularly in regard to the Carrows' torture of students in the name of "detention". McGonagall had initially refused appointment altogether, then accepted interim appointment, the Governors assuming they could persuade Snape to step down voluntarily if – _when _– he recovered.

Harry stripped out of his clothes on his way to Snape's bathroom, spelled the bath Kreacher had drawn him warm, laughing slightly when he found himself, yet again, choosing the green, sage-scented water that Snape preferred – something he'd recognized in the first days of his appropriation of the quarters after Slughorn vacated, his excuse being that Gryffindor Tower was too empty, too far from those faculty who had stayed to oversee the castle's repairs. McGonagall neither approved nor disapproved, merely pursed her lips in silent consideration that changed to a sad, sympathetic smile, and patted his arm, when he'd told her, "If you need me, I'll be in Snape's quarters."

Slughorn had changed things, of course – more luxurious, cushy comfort in his furnishings than Snape would ever have allowed himself – chintz upholstery at which Harry shuddered, reminded of Aunt Petunia, and an abundant, ever-replenishing supply of candied pineapple. After an uneasy night in the too-soft bed, Harry had called for a house elf and requested the quarters be changed back to Snape's décor. Then he and Kreacher set about making subtle changes. They lightened some of the furnishings, including the bed hangings, still green and silver, but a softer shade. They added softly-glowing wall sconces to brighten even the darkest corners, leaving no place for nightmares to hide, cleaned the floo, and patched tiny leaks that had made the place uncomfortably damp. Harry set about refurbishing the rooms as if to honor the man he hoped would soon occupy them, as well as with an eye to banishing anything that might be reminders of the torture Snape had undergone as a Death Eater, and the demons that would likely chase him in memory. These would be Snape's quarters again, he hoped, but he was determined the man would feel both at home and _healed_ here.

So he and Kreacher cleaned, polished, refurbished, and renewed, making the rooms subtly warmer, both in actual ambient temperature and in feel, always retaining _Snape_, but Snape as Harry now saw him – noble, honorable, courageous, a man of impeccable integrity.

He sought input and assistance from the faculty, and even from Slytherin's resident ghost, the Bloody Baron. Because it was a Gryffindor in residence, however briefly, he also sought input from Sir Nicholas. Each time she visited, McGonagall inevitably noted the changes, gave that same sad smile, nodded her understanding, and patted Harry on the arm, leaving him with the feeling she thought his work in vain, but he determined it would not be.

Once he had done all he could to make Snape's quarters as safe and comfortable as they could be, without Snape's own personal touches, and lacking anything else to do, those evenings he could not sleep or McGonagall or Pomfrey shooed him away from Snape's side, Harry set about the overwhelming task of unpacking and sorting through the vast library of potions and dark arts texts McGonagall sent down from the Headmaster's… Headmistress'… Dumbledore's… Snape's… the office Snape had occupied this past year. He treated the texts reverently, checking topics listed in indices to help him categorize and arrange the texts. Often, he'd find his fingers caressing Snape's copious annotations in the margins of pages, a fond smile on his face, recalling his old potions text book – the one that had been _Property of the Half-Blood Prince_. When he found himself clutching one such potions text to his chest one evening, he took it to bed with him, and, starting at the beginning, read each page, bouncing between the text and Snape's illuminating, clarifying, and often amusing commentary. _Crush, don't cut… Add one cw stir every 8 ccw… Potion-making idiots! _Some tomes had the word _Worthless! _ inked in Snape's angular, pointed scrawl, all over the frontispiece. Harry read them anyway, amused at Snape's increasingly snide commentary as the despised author went on.

Snape received volumes and volumes of mail. Harry greeted and rewarded the owls in the Great Hall, where he sat with McGonagall and other faculty and staff members once Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna and the rest of the students had gone home for the summer. By common consent, he and McGonagall incinerated the howlers unopened, and jointly went through the rest, tossing declarations of undying love and offers of marriage without guilt, retaining genuine expressions of gratitude or queries after Snape's well-being, grouping offers of employment that made them both uneasy, and stacking up the many potions journals that arrived weekly – some with requests for articles from Snape's quill. Harry selected the most supportive letters and read those to Snape, hoping the positive regard would call the man out of wherever he had retreated, in his continued unconsciousness.

"I've done all I can do, Harry," Madam Pomfrey had told him. "The rest is up to him." So Harry kept him company, and daily repeated his plea, "Don't leave me, Professor. I'm not done with you yet."

Daytimes, he'd read a few letters to the man, eventually losing his discomfort, commenting on each one. Then he'd read aloud from one of Snape's books, making points or asking questions, carrying on as if Snape had responded or asked him a question in return. Over time, those one-sided conversations began to include talking to Snape about his own healing – how he was feeling, what he was thinking, what his dreams and nightmares provoked in him. He confessed that he slept in Snape's bed, and promised he was taking good care of Snape's belongings and space. He imagined and responded to Snape's side of the conversation, ending, often, with "I wish you'd wake up, Professor. I'd give anything for you to take points away from Gryffindor and tell me to stop being such an idiot again… or even to tell me I'm arrogant, just like my dad – even if you'd be wrong. I'd rather have that than…"

_Than nothing of you,_ he thought, and whispered again, "I'm not done with you yet."

He finished his bath, shaking his mind out of his musings, stretching and groaning as the hot water soothed his cramped muscles, planning his day – not that it varied much, except when interrupted by hearings at the Ministry. Those were, thankfully, beginning to abate, though demands by The Prophet and numerous other publications for interviews still plagued him. He steadfastly refused them all, save for one, given after Arthur Weasley pointed out both that the public needed _something_ from him in order to be fully reassured, and that it was a chance to hear _from him _– from the one person whose word they would trust, for now, that Snape had been working on the side of the Light all along. He'd attended that one interview, supported by McGonagall, Arthur, Kingsley, Ron, Hermione, Neville and Luna, as each of them had a part in the story to tell, and then retreated to Hogwarts again, from which his friends could rarely drag him. Even the Ministry could budge him only with the enticement of adding more to his testimony about Snape each time he answered a summons, though that, too, was nearly concluded, with the recent official exoneration of the man _in absentia_, and the awarding of the Order of Merlin, First Class.

He shook himself, realizing the bath water had gone cool during his continued musing. Rather than spell it warm again, he stood and grabbed a towel, and used his toes to yank the plug free with the chain that kept it anchored to the tub. He dried himself off, acutely aware that Snape had probably used this particular towel to do the very same, and growled at himself when he felt a twitch in his nether regions. Shaking that off, he padded, nude, to the bedroom, and opened the wardrobe, where he'd allotted himself scant space next to Snape's black robes, trousers, and white, high-necked shirts. He chose khaki-colored pants and a plain white shirt, grabbed up his belt from where it had slipped to the floor, and tossed it all on the bed. He fended off the stray recollection of having sorted Snape's socks and the black, silky boxers the man clearly preferred, pulled his own pants and socks from the one small drawer he'd appropriated in Snape's dresser, and got dressed, trying to get his mind to cooperate by going _elsewhere._

Hermione and Ron had sent an owl yesterday asking him to come to the Burrow, but had not protested when he sent Pigwidgen back with an apologetic but firm refusal. He supposed that would be followed by a plea from Molly – maybe Ginny… He twitched a shoulder uncomfortably as he notched his belt, aware that it hung rather loosely on his hips, doing little to hold up his trousers, and, grabbing his latest book, headed for the Great Hall, knowing McGonagall would not leave until she was sure he'd had his breakfast.

He was startled, when he entered, to see Hagrid, Firenze, Trelawney, Flitwick, Sinistra, and a mass of red-haired Weasleys noisily chatting at the Gryffindor table, apparently all waiting for him. As soon as they spotted him, Ron and Hermione jumped to their feet and raced to embrace him, pounding his back and hugging him fiercely, while the others shouted "Happy birthday, Harry!"

"Wow!" he said, extricating himself from Hermione's grasp with difficulty. "Is it the thirty-first? I've lost track!" He reached the table and suffered the enthusiastic hugs, pats, and handshakes with good humor, and allowed himself to be planted between Hermione and Ginny, who leaned into him and kissed his cheek, missing his lips only because he'd turned, at the last minute, his attention caught by something Arthur was saying, or so he feigned. Then he turned and smiled at Ginny, and patted her hand, mentally wincing at the confused, hurt look in her eyes. He busied himself with conversation and breakfast, trying to ignore the pressure of her knee against his.

There were presents after breakfast – small ones, which he appreciated, as he wasn't really in the mood for a big celebration; a self-inking quill and new journal from Hermione, a subscription to _Quidditch Illustrated_ from Ron, a petrified dragon's egg from Hagrid, who told him if he placed it in the fireplace, it would retain heat for thirty-six hours, a lockbox with secret compartments that bit the fingers of anyone not keyed to open it from George ("and Fred," he'd added, with a half smile), spell books from McGonagall, a set of Tarot cards from Trelawney, at which both Ron and George snickered, a new robe from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, a broom-care kit from Ginny inscribed _From One Seeker to Another, _and a basket of sweetgrass woven so tightly that it would hold water, from Firenze.

Bill, Fleur, and Charlie had sent birthday cards, the former accompanied by French chocolates, the latter with a dragon-scale charm threaded on a leather thong that he slipped around his neck. One side of the scale was inscribed with the rune for _Courage_, the other with _Protection. _As he slipped it over his head, he felt the charm settle on him, and he wondered how much the rare item had set Charlie back. He exclaimed over each gift, and thanked them all with genuine appreciation.

By the time breakfast was done, though, he was exhausted, no longer used to so many people, or so much socializing. Eventually, everyone said their goodbyes, to return to work for the day, and Molly took McGonagall's floo back to the Burrow, but they assured Harry they would all be back for supper and cake that evening. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny told him they planned to spend the day, and he had a moment's panic, his mind and his heart already warning him he'd been away from Snape too long. Hermione rescued him.

"Harry… can we all go up and see Professor Snape?"

He looked up to see McGonagall watching them. She gave him a small nod. "Uh… yeah… of course."

"And then let's play two-a-side Quidditch!" Hermione added brightly. Ron, Ginny, and Harry all turned to gawk at her, astonished.

"You _hate_ Quidditch!" Ron exclaimed.

She reddened. "Yes, well, I've been reading up on it…" All of them groaned and exchanged grins at that. "and I think I would like to try. A well-rounded witch should be informed about all aspects of wizarding life, don't you think, Headmistress?"

McGonagall raised her cup of tea and murmured an amused agreement, then flicked her eyes to Harry and gazed at him meaningfully, the message as clear as if she'd said it aloud – _You _will_ spend time outside the castle today, Mr. Potter! _He lifted both hands in defeat, and she looked smugly satisfied. He wondered if she'd arranged all this with his friends. _Of course she had!_

They made their way to the infirmary, two by two. Ginny took his hand and he squeezed it, then let go to point out places the castle was being repaired, maneuvering to walk next to Ron by means of calling him back to look at a niche where a suit of armor had once stood. Ron looked at him peculiarly, and Harry hoped the guilt did not show in his eyes, but his best mate thankfully said nothing.

Madam Pomfrey smiled as they entered. "Happy birthday, Mr. Potter," she said, handing him a small box. He opened it and was confused to find several long strips of leather curled inside.

"They're for your hair, Harry," Hermione said. His confusion increased.

"Well, it _is_ rather long, mate," Ron said with a grin, tugging on it. Harry put a hand up and grabbed a handful, then shook his head as he realized it fell to his shoulders, now. He just hadn't bothered to cut it, not for months now, and simply hadn't realized its length.

"Here – let me," Ginny said, and she plucked a black length from the box, and deftly pulled his hair back to the nape of his neck, wrapping the leather around it three times and tying it off.

"I look like a girl," Harry complained.

"Nah – you look kinda' Scottish. You should do it in a braid," Ron said, laughing at Harry's bewildered look.

Madam Pomfrey smiled. "To keep your hair out of your work, Mr. Potter." She patted his arm, said, "The look suits you," and turned back to her office, leaving them alone with Snape, who slumbered on, oblivious to the conversation at his bedside.

"He looks great," Hermione said softly, moving to the head of the bed. "Do they know when…?"

"No," Harry said, unconsciously patting Snape's hand. "But it'll be soon – I know it."

"How do you know, Harry?" Ginny asked, her eyes on Snape's face.

"I just do," Harry said. "He'll come back to me." He did not notice the looks his friends exchanged, or the sad, supportive smile Hermione gave Ginny. They stood murmuring in a soft conversation as Harry gazed at Snape's face, patting his arms and hands in his usual inventory. _Are you in there? Are you all right? Come back. I'm not done with you yet._ He carded his hand through the blue-black hair, gently working his fingertips against the man's scalp, massaging and soothing, not that he could tell if the man needed it – but he liked to tell himself that the slack face changed under his touch… though maybe he was imagining it.

"Harry…"

He became aware that someone was trying to get his attention.

"Harry, let's go play Quidditch."

He looked up, one hand tangled in Snape's hair, to find his friends watching him, strange looks on their faces, each one slightly different. He pulled his hand away, gently patting Snape's shoulder before he let go completely. "Yeah, sure. I'm… Let's go," he agreed, and allowed himself to be pulled away, looking back once at the door, watching until it swung shut, blocking his view of the man.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Everything in the Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers. The plot of this work of fanfiction belongs to me, and I alone am responsible for its content. No galleons are being made from this work.

* * *

**Never Done**  
Chapter 3

The afternoon dragged on, though Harry did his best to focus on the game, taking Hermione as his partner, partly to instruct and partly to protect, the sides more even that way, anyway. He evaded Ginny's hand-holding by tossing a quaffle with the three of them all the way back to the castle, then suggested they have tea in his quarters. When the others turned toward Gryffindor tower, he put out a hand to stop them and said, "Uh… I'm not staying up there. You know – reconstruction and all…" and turned to lead them to the dungeons, nodding at the portrait of Salazar Slytherin and murmuring a password too low for the others to catch.

Their puzzled looks turned to shock, and they turned to stare at him, when they entered what were clearly Snape's quarters. Boxes of as-yet unsorted books sat between the sofa and wing-back chairs, and piles of sorted but unshelved books were spread over nearly every surface. He hesitated, looked away from them, and mumbled, "C'mon – I'll show you around."

He led them to the kitchen, pointed out what he and Kreacher had been doing to upgrade Snape's quarters and the rationale behind each change, and even showed them Snape's former – and soon to be again, he hoped – private lab. When Ron asked for the loo, he hesitated, and led them into Snape's bedroom. Hermione took one look around and whirled toward him.

"_Harry!_" she accused, "you're _sleeping_ in here!"

For some reason, Ginny spun on him and said, "You _can't _be!"

"Why not?" Harry said defensively. "It's not as if _he's_ here. He hasn't been down here in over a year!"

"But, Harry – that's _his_ bed!"

He thought of challenging her with, "How do _you _know?" but gave the idea up almost as soon as he thought it. "So? He's not using it – and I'm not going to sleep on a stone floor waiting for him, am I?"

"_Waiting_ for him?" Ginny said, her eyes flashing, but Hermione broke in with, "But, Harry – what will Snape say when he finds out you've been living _in his quarters_?"

"They haven't _been _his quarters! Slughorn's been here for the last year!" he said, his voice ratcheting up in volume. He gestured around. "Right now, this is just where his – Snape's – things are… waiting for him. Don't even know if he'll stay here – stay at Hogwarts, if he'll want to… to teach, or to stay, McGonagall says." He could not keep the forlorn, hopeless tone from his voice.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione whispered. He looked up to find a stricken, sympathetic look on her face, and looked over at Ginny, who was trying to master her expression.

"Come on," he said, struggling against something uncomfortably akin to anger. "Let's get Kreacher to make us lunch." He stalked out of the room between them, aware they were exchanging looks behind his back. He led them to the table in Snape's kitchen and snapped out, "Kreacher!"

There was a pop, and the house elf appeared, dressed as they had last seen him at Grimmauld Place, before he led the elves of Hogwarts into battle. He bowed. Master Harry, and the Mistresses Granger and Weasley…"

"Kreacher!" Hermione said happily. "How are you?"

"Kreacher is healthy, Mistress. Master Harry treats us well, and the house elves here as well."

"I'm so glad, Kreacher! How is Winky?"

"Winky is also healthy, Mistress." The elf looked at Harry. "Did Master Harry wish lunch for himself and his friends?"

"Yes, Kreacher," Harry began, only to be interrupted by Ron's "Kreacher! How are you, mate?"

"Master Weasley calls Kreacher 'mate'!" Kreacher said, sounding stunned.

"Yeah, well – you fought with us, didn't you? Comrades-in-arms, and all that?"

"Master Weasley called Kreacher comrade!" Kreacher's eyes could not possibly get any bigger, and his ears began to quiver.

It took several minutes before Harry could calm him down, throwing an amused but exasperated look at Ron while doing so. Finally, the elf calmed enough to Apparate to the kitchen, and shortly, the table was laden with enough food to feed half of Gryffindor, had school been in session.

"So, Harry, what are you going to do once term starts?" Ron asked, reaching for the mashed potatoes. Harry avoided the question momentarily by stuffing a forkful of chicken with capers into his mouth, and Ron continued, not particularly bothered by the fact he'd just taken a bite himself. "Robards wants you, you know. You gonna take him up on his offer?"

Harry swallowed. "What about you? He wants you, too."

"I told him I'd think about it, but George needs me right now, and… none of us want to leave him alone. If I'm not there, he just sits and stares. Angelina and I are pretty much running things."

"You should get George busy inventing," Hermione suggested.

"I'm not sure he knows how to do that without Fred. It's like half his brain is missing," Ginny said, and for once, her usual stolid demeanor fled, her voice shook, and tears came to her eyes. It was easy – too easy – for Harry to slip an arm around her in comfort, and she leaned into him gratefully, almost with relief. Before she could interpret it as more than comfort, though, he retrieved his arm to butter a dinner roll. She kept a hand on his leg under the table, and he tried not to twitch it away.

"So, what _are _you going to do, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"It depends on what happens with Snape," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on his plate. He didn't need to look up to know the others were exchanging glances.

"Harry – "

"Don't. Don't, Hermione – _any _of you. I know what you think, but I won't leave him. Get it through your heads!" he said, not quite shouting. There was a moment of stunned silence, into which he said, "Excuse me," pushed back his chair, and fled to Snape's bathroom, where he pounded a fist on the wall next to the sink, then turned to lean against it and slide down to the floor, his hand and his back smarting from the contact with the rough stone. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his eyes stinging with confused tears that escaped to soak into the knees of his jeans.

_What's wrong with me?_

He thought of Snape, five floors overhead, breathing – he hoped – the green light blinking slowly over his bed… he hoped. And his _need _for the man… for _something…_ overwhelmed him, leaving him gulping for air around his sobs.

_I'm not done with you yet._

Why, though? What was he looking for from the man? A chance to say thank you… a chance to say _I'm sorry_… a chance to say goodbye before Snape – rightfully so – threw him out of his life, his father's son, a bully, someone who had utterly, utterly misjudged and mistreated Snape – a far, far better man than he, Harry, would ever be.

His tears finally stopped and he laid his head back against the cool stone to stop its throbbing.

_What am I doing? _

_Waiting for a man to wake up… so I can say goodbye._

His eyes threatened tears again, but a sound in the room next door – Snape's bedroom – reminded him he had visitors, so he levered himself to his feet and ran the water in the washbasin, splashed some on his face, and refused to look himself in the eye. The mirror murmured something suspiciously comforting, and he patted it gratefully, then opened the door to find Ginny perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for him, her hands patting the green velvet comforter.

"Are you all right, Harry?" she asked softly.

He fought to keep the irritation from his face, to shield his automatic thought – _What is she doing here? _– from his mind, even though she was not a Legilimans.

"I'm fine. I… I should finish my lunch or Kreacher will tell McGonagall on me." He turned and left the room, not particularly caring about the hurt on Ginny's face.

He finished his lunch while the others watched, then suggested they visit Hagrid, mostly to keep them from pestering him about signing up for Auror training, or about when he would leave Hogwarts. He was inclined to neither. Besides – where would he go? Grimmauld Place was still booby-trapped against Snape, and he had no desire to be reminded that everyone had taken the man for a villain. The Ministry's focus was, rightly so, on repairing the school, the Ministry itself, and Gringotts, as well as on chasing down errant Death Eaters and Snatchers and hangers-on in Voldemort's camp, and repairing relationships with goblins, werewolves, vampires, centaurs, and the wizarding and Muggle worlds in general. Harry had told them Grimmauld Place was not a priority, and he'd let them know when he needed it.

And the Burrow… with its reminders of Fred, and Ginny's constant presence, the pressure unintentionally created by Ron and Hermione's closeness, the expectations… was not what he wanted to face. Not yet. How could he explain it to them when he couldn't even explain it to himself?

He led the other three to Hagrid's by way of the Black Lake, tossing remnants of lunch to the giant squid, who waved lazy tentacles at them. They waved back and skirted the edge of the lake to follow the outline of the walls and wards, past the front gates, then continued to the right, toward Hagrid's. He was out back, checking the garden and talking to Buckbeak and Fang, his voice leading them to him.

"Harry! And Ron and Hermione, a' course! And Ginny, too! Yeh spendin' th' day then?" He gathered them all in for a hug, heedless of dirt and fertilizer on his pink, flowery apron… and none of them minded at all.

"Garden's looking well, Hagrid," Harry observed.

"Got to get things ready for fall. Term's here b'fore yeh know it!" he said, his eyes crinkling into a happy smile.

"Need help with anything?" Ron asked.

"Not unless yeh want ta' help me mash flobberworms for fertilizer," the half giant said, then boomed a laugh at Ron's nauseated look. "Jes' fooling yeh, there, Ron. No – 'tis all in hand. How 'bout some tea?"

"Do you have any lemonade?" Ginny asked as they followed Hagrid to his back door. "I'm parched!"

Soon, the four of them were seated at Hagrid's table, legs swinging from the seats of oversized chairs, sipping ice-cold lemonade while Hagrid bustled around the cabin putting away gardening tools and apron, and washing up before he joined them.

"Right nice o' yeh to keep Harry company on his birthday," Hagrid said as he settled heavily into his chair. Harry knew where this would go if he let it, so he decided on a diversion.

"So – Hagrid… what were you doing seven years ago today?"

The half-giant's beady black eyes nearly disappeared in folds as he grinned. "I don't rightly 'member, Harry. What were _you _doing?"

"Oh… I don't know. I vaguely remember something about a house on a rock and some big oaf knocking the door down, telling me I was a wizard, and turning my cousin into a pig," he said, grinning broadly across the table at the giant. Hagrid chuckled at the others' gasps.

"Harry! You never told me that!" Ron exclaimed, pretending to be hurt.

They spent the better part of two hours reminiscing about Harry's and Hermione's first days in the wizarding world, laughing until their sides hurt. That led to recollection of all their adventures at school, with an emphasis on laughter and fun and close calls with Filch and Mrs. Norris. Harry's mind kept turning up close calls with Snape, and when those stories escaped too often from his lips, worked to change that by deliberately talking about Quidditch or about Seamus blowing up a cauldron… which led him, unavoidably, it seemed, back to Snape.

Mid-way through the afternoon, Neville showed up, and after being pounded and hugged by everyone, and wished a day-late happy birthday himself, the stories began all over again when Ron said, "Harry, tell Neville about Dudley!" Neville added his own tales, and Harry realized he hadn't felt so relaxed and at peace in… over two years, really… over four… maybe since his first year, before he knew that Voldemort was still a threat.

It was healing, to review it all with those who had shared it with him, to focus on the good things they had shared. He looked around at his friends, laughing, toasting each other with lemonade – reveling in their survival, he realized, and his throat spasmed and he fought down tears – of gratitude, for all of them… for their survival… for their friendship. He looked up and caught Neville looking at him. The… man… gave him a soft smile and a nod, and Harry knew that at least one of his friends got it. They all did, to some extent, he realized. Even Ginny, though to a lesser extent, he thought, protected as she had been from the worst of it, in ways Ron, Hermione, and Neville had not been.

As the afternoon wore on, Hagrid looked out the window and exclaimed, "Blimey! Look at the time! Best get back to the castle and wash up for dinner, you lot! Can't be late to yer own party, Harry, Neville!" He clapped a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder, driving him back into his chair just as he'd started to rise. "Sorry, there, lad!"

They trooped back up to the castle, and Harry threw an arm over Ron's shoulders, Hermione on Ron's other side. Neville and Ginny walked companionably behind them, carrying on their own quiet conversation. Neville caught Harry at the main door. "Harry, got a moment?"

"Sure, Neville, what is it?"

Neville looked at the others, and Harry waved them on. "Go on – I'll meet you at the stairs to the dungeon," he said, turning back to Neville.

"How are you and Ginny getting on," Neville asked without preamble.

Harry groaned. "Not you, too, Neville!"

"It's just that… if you two aren't dating… I mean… I know you have an understanding…"

"There _is _no understanding, Neville," Harry interrupted with a chop of his hand. "It's been a long year, you know?"

"Yeah – it has." Neville looked at him a moment in consideration. "In that case… you wouldn't mind if I asked her out?"

Harry looked at him, startled. "No. No, of course not, Neville." Harry frowned, wondering at the spurt of feeling that prompted.

"You sure? I don't want to steal your girl, mate."

Harry laughed and clapped Neville on the shoulder. "She's not my girl, mate. And you should. Go ahead and ask her. You two led the DA all last year – you have a lot to talk about, I'm sure." He grinned. "You have my blessing."

Neville looked at him appraisingly, but finally nodded. "I hope you find someone, Harry."

"Th… thanks, Neville," Harry said, perplexed.

After they washed up, taking turns in Snape's bathroom and making Harry more than a little uncomfortable, for some reason, he left his friends at the entrance to the Great Hall. "I'll be just a few minutes," he said. "I want to check on Snape." They didn't bother to argue with him, Hermione determinedly hauling a protesting Ron into the hall, pushing Neville and Ginny ahead of her. Harry raced up the stairs to the infirmary, taking the circuitous route necessitated by the as-yet unfinished reconstruction. He slowed down once he was in the fourth floor hall, approaching the infirmary doors, wanting to let his breathing slow at least a little before he entered.

The infirmary's ward gave at his touch, as he knew it would. Poppy had long ago granted him access. He would have simply dismantled the ward, had she not, and when he'd informed her of the fact, she bowed to the inevitable with as much graciousness as she could, though McGonagall had given Harry a pointed glare. He'd merely looked at her calmly. He was not about to flaunt his abilities, but nor would he allow them to keep him from Snape's side, however well-intended their concern.

Snape slept on, the green light blinking steadily with every rise and fall of his chest. Harry checked anxiously for any signs of change, for better or worse, and when he found none, stood a while at Snape's side, just allowing the steady rhythm of Snape's shallow breathing and the faint pulse of the monitoring light to soothe him, ground him. Finally, he let out a long breath, and patted the man on the shoulder. "I'll be back, Professor. I'll be back." He hesitated a moment. "This would be a good day for you to wake up, you know?" He threaded his fingers once more through the man's hair and, on impulse, bent and brushed his lips on the pale, dry forehead. "You get some rest. I'll be back." He patted Snape's shoulder again, and reluctantly turned to head back to the Great Hall.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Everything in the Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers. The plot of this work of fanfiction belongs to me, and I alone am responsible for its content. No galleons are being made from this work.

* * *

**Never Done  
**Chapter 4

The evening ran later than even Harry anticipated, and, thankfully, there were presents and cake for Neville, too, though it took some convincing to persuade him that Harry'd gotten his presents in the morning. Quite late – well past curfew, had it been during term, the party finally broke up, and the professors and Filch headed back to their quarters, McGonagall herding Neville, Hermione, and the Weasleys ahead of her to take the Floo back to London or the Burrow. Harry waved goodbye at the stairs to the dungeons, and headed down to fetch a book, some slippers, and his invisibility cloak. Donning the latter, he slipped through the halls, passed by no one, not even Peeves or Nick, and into the infirmary. Poppy was attending to Snape's needs for the night. When she finished, she turned to where Harry waited, invisible.

"You might as well drop the cloak, Potter. I know very well you are there," she said with a disapproving sniff. He did so, chagrined to be found out.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Apart from that gasp you gave when I dressed the wound on his arm?" she asked with a glint of amusement in her eye. "You need to learn to pick up your feet when you walk. Some Auror you'll make, if you can't sneak up on a person!"

"Not sure I want to, anyway," he muttered.

She looked at him sharply, then, as he drew closer, patted his cheek, transfigured a visitor's chair into something plush and comfortable, and waved over a blanket. "See you at breakfast, Mr. Potter. Do call me if you need anything."

"Hot chocolate would be nice," he mumbled, amused and resigned.

She swatted at him, humphed, and waved her wand, and a mug of cocoa with marshmallows appeared. "Undosed," she said with an insulted sniff when he hesitated.

He grinned. "Goodnight, Madam Pomfrey."

"Goodnight, dear."

…oooOOOooo…

Some shift in Snape's breathing startled Harry awake. He half-sat, half-lay in the large cushy chair, wrapped in a soft, warm blanket. Snape's breath hitched again, and Harry jerked to full awareness, fighting his way out of the blanket. It sounded like Snape was having trouble breathing. The green light over his bed glowed a sickly orange. An inarticulate cry of protest tore from Harry's chest. "No! Lumos!" he said urgently, and was further alarmed by the color of Snape's face, mottled as if he was struggling with some invisible threat that was strangling him, cutting off his air.

"Madam Pomfrey!" he yelled, but she was already bursting through the door from her quarters, drawing her robe around her as she ran toward them. Just then, Snape made a strangled sound, and arched up off the bed, tightened in a full-body seizure that had his jaw clamped and a rictus of pain on his face, as if he was being _Crucio'd_.

"No!" Harry yelled, terrified.

Madam Pomfrey threw him a look, and said as she cast her wand over the man, "Calm yourself, Potter, if you expect to help. Pillows," she directed him, and he _Accio'd_ pillows from the other beds, stuffing them between Snape's body and the sides of the bed, to keep him from injuring himself.

They waited it out, Harry anxiously looking from Snape to Madam Pomfrey and back, wanting to touch the man, to soothe him, but refraining when Pomfrey shook her head, her eyes on Snape's face and the light over the bed. After what felt like hours, but was likely mere minutes, or even seconds, Snape's body relaxed its unnatural clenching, and collapsed back against the mattress. The monitoring light faded slowly back to green as Poppy bustled around them, calling for potions that she dribbled carefully down Snape's throat, now that she could get his mouth to open. Harry watched her carefully stroke the man's neck to get him to swallow, avoiding the still-inflamed scars, and wished he could do... _something... _to help. The whole time, Poppy spoke only to Snape, encouraging him, soothing him, and Harry tamped down an irritable reaction that he did not take the time to examine. Finally, Snape's body relaxed into sleep once more, and Poppy cast a warming and drying spell to rid him and the sheets and blankets of sweat. She finally looked up and something on Harry's face made hers soften in understanding.

"He'll be all right. He had a seizure. It's not unexpected, and he'll likely have more as the venom works its way out of his system. It's affected his heart and his brain."

"His brain?" Harry asked, worrying his lower lip and looking at Snape anxiously.

"Snake venom is a neurotoxin, Mr. Potter. It affects nerves and brain functioning – as well as the heart." She hesitated. "It's possible, even likely, that the Professor will have brain damage when he wakes up."

_When_, she'd said.

"So he _will _wake up?"

"I believe so."

"But he'll have brain damage."

"It's likely, yes."

"What kind of brain damage?" Harry asked, but he knew the answer before she gave it.

"We'll have to wait and see, Mr. Potter."

He nodded. "What do we do if he has another seizure?"

She told him how to protect Snape from injuring himself during a seizure, what draughts and potions he would need once a seizure stopped, and gave him permission to help with that, when he repeated her instructions exactly. Then she handed him a jar of some kind of cream, and showed him how to massage Snape's limbs and torso, to help his muscles recover from the brutality of the storm.

It was odd to touch Snape's body like this, but soothing, too, as it finally gave Harry something to do, and… he liked it – liked the feel of the oily cream under his fingers, his hands sliding along Snape's muscles, kneading deeply yet soothingly, following lines of sinew and tendon. It satisfied something he hadn't been aware of needing - not really. He began tentatively, then, following Poppy's lead and instructions, burrowed deeper into Snape's muscles – the arch of his foot and his toes, his ankles and long calves, his legs – stopping just short of… _there_… his torso and chest, which had Harry feeling all squiggly inside, his shoulders and arms, down to his hands and fingers, attention paid to each one. He paced himself by following exactly what Poppy did, distancing himself from the fact that he was touching _Snape's body _by focusing on the task as if it were no different from Care of Magical Creatures or Herbology. Poppy flipped Snape over and they repeated the pattern, massaging strained muscles from toes to head, ending with Snape's neck and shoulders this time. Harry found himself relaxing, thinking his way into Snape's skeletal system, and the tendons and ligament he could feel under his fingers, willing them strong and whole, willing the man well.

When they finished, Poppy flipped Snape over again with the flick of her wand, waved the covers up over him, took the jar of cream from Harry's hands, and smiled at him. "That will help, too, Mr. Potter."

"What?" he asked.

"A healer puts himself into the healing, gives his energy and spirit to the person being healed, as you just did for Professor Snape."

"I did?" he asked, bemused, turning to look at Snape, hands automatically seeking to touch him, soothe him.

"Yes – and that may make all the difference."

Harry barely heard her, but then asked, "All those times… when you treated me… did you…?"

"Don't be silly, Potter. Those weren't life-threatening injuries – for the most part. For most things, simple spells, poultices, and potions will do." She waved her wand and pushed a glass of some ruby-colored liquid into his hand. "A restorative," she said at his questioning look. "You'll need it, after that. Drink," she ordered.

He did, and was surprised to find that, for once, the potion tasted good as it went down, and he felt nearly an immediate boost in his energy. "Wow! That's great!"

Poppy sniffed, then smiled and patted him. "You'll still need some rest."

He glanced uncertainly at the pulsing green light over Snape's bed.

"I doubt you need worry whether or not you'll wake if he needs you, Potter, but in any case, as I'm up now, I'll just keep an eye on the both of you."

Nodding in gratitude, Harry sank back to his chair, pulled his blanket over himself, and allowed the Lumos at the tip of his wand to fade, his eyes never leaving Snape's face.

Twice more, Harry jerked awake to the sound of the guttural groan that presaged the onset of a seizure, and twice more, he and Poppy waited it out, keeping Snape safe, and massaging his limbs once it was over. Each seizure was shorter, less intense, and Harry was afraid to ask if that was a good thing, or merely a sign that Snape was growing weak and exhausted. _He _certainly was exhausted.

When several hours passed without a recurrence, Pomfrey touched his shoulder and he came awake, his eyes automatically going to Snape, ready to help once again, but she shook her head and led him away from the bed.

"I think the wait is over, Potter," she said kindly. "Go get some decent sleep and some breakfast." When he protested, she promised to send immediate word if something changed, and he reluctantly turned back to the dungeons.

...oooOOOooo…

Harry meant to rest for only a moment after his shower, but woke to Kreacher shaking him. "Master Harry, sir, is wanted in the infirmary," the elf said in his harsh, but not unkind, voice.

Harry's heart gave a painful squeeze. "Is he alright? Did something happen?" he asked as he frantically pulled on jeans, shoved sock-less feet into trainers, grabbed his wand and struggled with a t-shirt, already heading for the door.

"Kreacher is not knowing, sir," the elf said. "Master Harry did not eat his breakfast!" he accused at Harry's back as he fled the rooms, not bothering to respond, his feet pounding through the dungeon corridor toward the stairs.

He skidded to a stop before the infirmary doors, and yanked them open, dashing through, only to come to a halt at the sight of Poppy, McGonagall and Flitwick standing silently around Snape's bed. Suddenly fearful, he took hesitant steps, his eyes going first to the green pulsing light over the man's head, then to Poppy's face – calm and satisfied, then to Snape's – more color in it than he'd seen since the Shrieking Shack. He gave an involuntary cry of relief, and the three turned to look at him. "He's coming out of it!"

"Yes, Potter, he seems to be well on his way," McGonagall said, and the relief in her voice matched Harry's.

"He'll likely wake sometime today," Poppy said.

"I want to be here," he said, the words out of his mouth almost before he thought them.

"Of course," McGonagall said, patting his shoulder. Flitwick waved his wand and conjured three chairs, and the three of them sat down to wait, while Poppy prepared some potions Snape would need to take when he woke.

Over the course of the day, faculty checked in with McGonagall by owl or Floo, nearly always asking after Snape – "Severus," they called him, and the warmth and concern in their voices or messages soothed Harry. Flitwick challenged him to a game of wizard's chess to keep him occupied, while McGonagall handled correspondence from the Ministry. Harry and McGonagall, especially, kept flicking their eyes to the still, sleeping man, and Flitwick kept his warm, compassionate eyes on them. Harry refused to leave for lunch or dinner when McGonagall half-heartedly suggested he come down to the Great Hall. Around eight in the evening, she was called to her office by Shacklebolt, and Flitwick, looking from Harry to Snape, patted the boy on the shoulder and slipped off his chair to the floor, saying, "You'll let us know when he wakes, won't you, Potter?"

"I will," Harry said, not taking his eyes from Snape's face.

"I'll send up a snack," Flitwick said, and turned without waiting for Harry's reply.

"Thank you, Professor."

"We all care about him, Mr. Potter – as we all care for you," Flitwick said softly, and slipped from the room, leaving Harry warm and confused.

…oooOOOooo…

It was nearly midnight when Snape stirred. Harry had read to him for a while, then simply sat silently, watching him, patting his shoulder, and touching his hair gently. Eventually, he began to talk, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

"I want you to come back, you know," he said, one hand over Snape's, laying atop the covers. "I know… I know I won't be able to... I know you probably won't want me talking with you any more than necessary. I know you might not want to talk with me at all. So, before you wake up, I just want to tell you thank you… for all of it. For protecting me all these years… for helping me this year. I… totally misjudged you… and it was so unfair…" His breath caught in half a sob, and his voice was tight with the effort not to shed tears. "I wish… I wish it had been different. I wish I hadn't hated you. I wish you hadn't had to go through all that – all of us hating you, Voldemort and Dumbledore using you. You… you are the strongest man I've ever known. Everyone thinks of me as a hero. But you – you are, and will always be, my hero." He stopped, his throat too tight to say more, and did not bother wiping away the tears that slipped down his face to fall on the hand that lay, quiescent and still, in his own.

That hand twitched. Harry automatically squeezed it reassuringly. It twitched again, and this time, the movement registered in Harry's awareness. He gripped the hand tighter, looked into Snape's face, and saw his eyes moving restlessly beneath the lids, as if he were struggling to come awake.

"Professor," Harry said encouragingly, "can you open your eyes? You're safe, Professor. Everything's alright. You're at the infirmary. Everything's okay and you're safe, now." Poppy had told him Snape would need these reassurances as he woke, and Harry watched the green light pulsing, speeding up, but calming as he repeated himself. "It's okay, Professor, you're safe. Everything is alright. Everyone is okay. We're all alright. Everything is okay and you're safe. You can open your eyes, Professor. It's safe."

He was rewarded by the fluttering of Snape's eyelids, slightly stuck at the corners. He spelled a cloth with a murmured _Aguamenti_, and a warming charm, and used it to gently wipe the corners of Snape's eyes, flicking his own to Poppy's door, knowing he should call her, but somehow not wanting to lose these last moments of intimacy before Snape would, no doubt, hex him into oblivion for presuming to touch him.

Snape's raised a hand to grasp weakly at Harry's wrist, though the man did not pull him away.

"It's all right, Professor. It's just me – Harry. You're okay. You're safe. Everything is going to be alright," Harry repeated. Snape's hand trembled slightly, then tightened a moment before it fell away, and Harry looked down into black, obsidian, uncertain eyes.

"Potter," Snape croaked.


	5. Chapter 5

The Usual Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money exchanged hands, all rights to J.K. Rowling. Thank you, Jo. For everything.

* * *

**Never Done**  
Chapter 5

Harry stopped breathing for a moment, so overwhelming it was to see Snape awake… to see his eyes… after so long. That last look, the one in the Shrieking Shack, came back to him full-force, and for a moment, his heart gave a panicked jump, as if it would happen all over again. He saw Snape's eyes widen, saw his momentary panic mirrored on Snape's face, and inhaled sharply, then let it out, forcing himself to relax past the memory, mastering his own emotion in order to help Snape master his. He calmed himself. "Welcome back, Professor," he said quietly, his face shifting into a soft smile.

Snape was too weak – and too dry – to say anything more, but the question was evident in his eyes.

"Voldemort's dead. We won. It's done. You're alive – and so am I… and the school is still standing, and McGonagall will be here soon, no doubt to blister your ears about how you deceived us and made us hate you." He leaned a bit closer, Snape's eyes following him warily. "We don't hate you anymore, Professor. You showed me… everything. Everything is going to be all right, now… now you're back."

Tears welled in Snape's eyes, and overflowed to run down the sides of his face, where they disappeared into his black hair. Harry wiped them gently away, shaking his head at Snape's unspoken protest. Still smiling softly, he said, "I know just how you feel. I feel that way, too." He patted Snape's shoulder, grateful that the man did not seem to even notice that, and picked up his wand to flick off a message for Poppy. At Snape's flinch, he patted his shoulder again, and said, "Shhh… it's alright. I'm just getting Madam Pomfrey. It's okay." He muttered the spell and turned to get a glass to fill with water to moisten the professor's dry lips.

…oooOOOooo…

Pomfrey bustled about, administering nutritive and strengthening potions, and McGonagall peppered Snape with reassurances and questions she did not really intend for him to answer, mid gently chiding the man for his necessary deceptions, making her own quiet apologies as best she could without dissolving into tears, quelling even those at Poppy's sharp look that, in no uncertain terms, forbade her to break down at Snape's bedside. Harry felt shunted to the side, irrelevant, extraneous, and stood out of the way, chewing his fingernails in anxiety and frustration.

Snape was visibly exhausted by the time Pomfrey and McGonagall finished, pale and shaking, still wary, closing his eyes against his will, as if doing so would leave him vulnerable. Pomfrey hurried off to make her notes and check her potions store, but McGonagall lingered by Snape's bedside, reluctant to leave. Finally, she sighed, patted his shoulder, and turned away, nearly colliding with Harry, who had moved tentatively closer when Snape closed his eyes.

"Oh! Potter! You're still here!"

He opened his mouth to respond, but she merely tapped his arm and said, "Keep an eye on him, will you?" When Harry nodded, she added, "I need to go report to Kingsley. He'll want to know." She was nearly out of the room when Harry turned away from the bed.

"Professor?"

She halted, one hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Would you let the Weasleys know, too?"

She studied him a moment, then smiled and said, "Of course, Mr. Potter."

He nodded and turned back to Snape, the light over his head indicating he was sleeping now – an ordinary sleep, not unconsciousness. Once he was alone with the man, he let out a long sigh, and the constriction in his chest and tightening in his shoulders eased up a bit. Had anyone been watching, they would have been fascinated by the emotions that flickered across his face – relief, worry, amusement, and something very like fondness.

His fingers itched to reach out and thread themselves through the man's hair again, or to pat him on the shoulder, but now that Snape was no longer unconscious, he did not dare. He satisfied himself by running the back of his index finger along the back of Snape's hand, lying outside the covers, barely touching the man. When he went to move away, Snape's hand twitched. Harry soothed it, and the hand curled around two of his fingers and held on. He found himself blinking away tears, and held still, then whispered, "It's alright, Professor. You're safe… and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not done with you yet." Snape relaxed into sleep, but he did not relinquish his hold on Harry's hand.

…oooOOOooo…

They woke and slept in tandem, Snape's movements bringing Harry alert, automatically uttering reassurances and reaching out to calm him. When Snape's breathing relaxed into sleep, Harry's eyes drifted shut, and he, too, slept. Pomfrey and McGonagall conferred softly over them, bringing Harry awake.

"We won't know for a while, yet, Headmistress. He's only woken a few times, and not really fully awake, at that. It's far too soon to tell if there'll be any permanent damage. It's enough for now that he's waking at all."

Harry struggled to a sitting position. "How is he?" he asked, glancing at Pomfrey, but reaching a hand out to Snape's shoulder in reassurance and protection. If Pomfrey noticed, she said nothing.

"He's doing just fine, Mr. Potter," she said, nodding in emphasis. "Next time he wakes, we'll want to keep him alert a while longer, start easing him back into a normal sleep-wake cycle. Do you think you can help with that?"

"Of course. What do I do?" Harry asked, wiping his hands on his knees as if eager to get to work.

"Talk with him, mostly – and encourage him to start talking back, to start doing things like stirring his tea and drinking it. If that goes well, we'll work on sitting him up, and then on getting him out of bed. His legs weren't injured, but he'll be weak from so much forced inactivity."

"So – sit him up, first?"

"Yes. Levitate him at first, then let him take it over, more and more, as much as he is able. And Potter," she said, "don't be surprised if he is a bit more emotional than you're used to. It's to be expected, with frontal lobe poisoning."

Harry swallowed, trying to picture an _emotional _Snape. Would the man sob… or laugh? He tried to picture Snape giggling, but couldn't manage it, though the thought was amusing. He'd probably be snarkier than usual… probably angrier, too. But that would just be because of the brain damage. Harry steeled his resolve to cope with it, determined not to take offense.

...oooOOOooo...

Poppy and McGonagall left them alone again, and Harry turned to the bed to find Snape's black eyes following his moves. He looked wary, even fearful. A _fearful _Snape was not what Harry was expecting.

"How much of that did you hear?" Harry asked, quietly.

"Enough. You are to keep me awake, and help me sit up, and then walk," Snape said with a curious lack of rancor or objection.

"And you're okay with that?"

Snape's jaw worked a bit before he said, "How long have I been…?"

"Two months," Harry said, watching for Snape's reaction to that.

"Two… _months_?" Snape gaped at Harry, looking stunned and shaken, before he caught himself and shut his mouth. He raised a shaking hand to wipe fingers across his forehead, and Harry thought it was to hide his eyes from Harry's… to break eye contact.

"Long time, huh? I… we weren't sure you were going to make it."

Snape opened his mouth to say something about that, but apparently thought better of it. "What are you doing here?" he asked finally, after several moments of mutual assessment. He looked… wary, Harry thought.

He shrugged. "Watching you, I guess."

"Why?"

"Why?" Harry blinked. _Why? _"Uh… because…" he gestured around the infirmary. "Everyone else left. I mean, the infirmary was full… you're the last one. Seamus went home just a few days ago."

"So why are you here? Everyone else is gone…"

"_You're _still here," Harry said, as if that were explanation enough.

"I fail to see how that is any concern of yours, Potter… unless I am so little threat that they feel I need no more than a schoolboy to guard me." He was beginning to tremble as he spoke.

"You're not a threat!" Harry protested.

…oooOOOooo…

Snape felt a flash of anger and fear at that. _Had they done something to him… something to neutralize his magic? Was the sentence already carried out, then? Where was his wand?_ Potter's hand reached toward him, and he jerked away. The boy dropped his hand.

"Professor," Potter said softly, "I'm still here because I… because you deserve it. I owed it to you to be here when you woke up."

Snape caught himself before he shook his head. _What did he mean by that? Was he going to get Snape back for years of abuse? For Dumbledore's death? For being complicit in Dumbledore's plan for Potter to die? For being Voldemort's "right hand man"? _Snape knew what he _deserved. _It seemed the boy was here to see that he got it.

Potter was running his hands up and down the sides of his thighs, nervously following the seam in his jeans with his fingernails. _Not so easy to dole out justice, is it, boy?_

"Stop that!" Snape ordered.

"Huh?"

"Stop your twitching, Potter! It's annoying. You don't need to be here. You've seen me. I'm awake. I'm apparently not going to make things easy on you by conveniently dying. Go report to whomever is waiting to know I'm coherent enough for… whatever you're going to do with me!" His hands were shaking, and he was breathing faster. He grabbed onto the blanket to still his hands. _Fool! Control yourself!_

Potter looked confused. "I'm… Professor – what? I'm not reporting to anyone! I mean – not other than Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall. And – no one's going to _do _anything to you – other than help you get well." The look on the boy's face changed, as if he suddenly understood something. "Professor… nothing is going to happen to you. You're alright. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you. You're… you're not in trouble or… or anything."

He paused and reached out a hand again. Snape froze as the boy gripped his shoulder, squeezed once, and let go. "You're okay, Professor. I won't let anything bad happen to you. I won't let anyone hurt you. I won't let anyone near you that you don't want to see, I promise. I'll… I'll protect you. I'm not going anywhere."

As if to prove his point, the boy grabbed a chair, planted it near Snape's bed, and sat himself down in it as if he intended to stay for the duration… for a decade. Snape watched him warily for several moments, and then, as the boy did not make any other threatening movements, he slowly relaxed the stranglehold he had on the covers over his knees.


	6. Chapter 6

The Usual Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money exchanged hands, all rights to J.K. Rowling. Thank you, Jo. For everything.

* * *

**Never Done**  
Chapter Six

Snape worked to control his trembling, cursing himself inwardly. _What in bloody hell was wrong with him? Frontal lobe damage,_ he answered himself. _Bloody hell. _He closed his eyes momentarily, seeking the inner calm, the void that he called up when practicing Occlumency.

_The recipe for Calming draught is the following: _

_1. In a number two silver cauldron, warm five cups of a standard potion base to just below boiling. _

_2. Add a quarter cup of powdered moonstone and two drops belladonna. _

_3. Raise the heat and stir seven times counterclockwise, pause, and repeat, until the solution is brought to a boil. _

_4. Add twelve and a half grams of turmeric, twenty-five grams cinnamon, twenty-five milliliters honey and six grams of ginger. _

_5. Return to a boil. _

_6. Stir thirteen times clockwise and one and a half times counterclockwise, by which time all ingredients should have dissolved. _

_7. Reduce the heat to a slow rolling boil and add one cup almond milk. _

_8. Stir until well blended and slightly almond-colored. _

_9. Remove from heat and allow to cool. _

_10. Cast a stay-fresh spell and decant into milk-white, opaque vials. _

_11. _ _Use within two weeks._

He opened his eyes, as calmed by the repetition of the well-practiced procedure as if he had imbibed the potion. "Since you are here, Potter, perhaps you could arrange a cup of tea."

Having something to do was good for both of them, Harry decided. He called Kreacher to him and instructed the elf to bring them tea fixings, but forbade him to make it for them, taking comfort in spelling the water hot and pouring it over tea leaves to steep, the soothing scent of bergamot causing both him and Snape to inhale deeply in anticipation. "Milk?" he asked.

"Better not," Snape replied. "Clear liquids first, I think."

Harry nodded his agreement, and nearly grinned up at the potion master's comment, certainly indicating his cognitive faculties were at least grossly intact. He schooled his face into a more sedate expression as he placed a cup of the steaming brew on a table, which he swung over Snape's knees. He placed a honey bowl and dipper next to the cup, and kept his face impassive when Snape glared at him. His look said quite clearly what he thought of this… test… for that was certainly what it was. He lifted his left hand to the honey bowl and his right to the dipper. His right hand shook a little, but that could have been due to muscle disuse or to anxiety, Harry knew. The man strove to keep his face neutral a he let the honey drip into his tea, and then replaced the dipper to pick up his spoon to stir. Having accomplished this, a flash of satisfaction flew across his face almost too swiftly for Harry to see.

Harry let out a breath he'd been holding, earning him a scowl from Snape, which he ignored, pulled the honey bowl toward himself, and made his own tea. They drank in silence. Snape kept his attention on his cup of tea, which he managed with both hands, his eyes deliberately, it seemed, avoiding Harry, who barely noticed, lost in his own thoughts despite keeping an eye on Snape's unsteady hands. Now the man was awake, he didn't quite know what to say to him. He finally looked up to find Snape watching him, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"How?" the man asked.

"Sir?"

Snape waved a hand as if to encompass… everything. "How are you still here, Potter? How did you do it? How…" _How am I still here,_ he did not say, but Harry heard the question in his voice nonetheless.

Harry set down his cup, and rubbed his hands on the knees of his jeans. How to tell the story… It was not as if he hadn't recounted things to the Wizengamot and Kingsley and McGonagall, but… _this_… this more personal telling... to a man he felt curiously connected to… this was different… invoked relationship, somehow. This was, he realized, the telling of the end to a journey they both had been on, traveling it together, even though he, Harry, had not known until the very end – or near the end. _How did… how _does … _our story end_, he wondered, looking at the man who waited somewhat guardedly for him to gather his thoughts. And the thought – that he'd been accompanied on this journey, that Snape had been his silent guide and protector all the years that led to… _this,_ that he'd _never_ been alone, even when he'd felt most alone, washed over him like grief… like gratitude… and he turned to Snape and let that show, as he began his tale.

"When last we met…" he said, a wry, apologetic smile on his lips.

…oooOOOooo…

He told it simply, with no embellishments, skipping over some parts. He told of the heroism of others – of McGonagall and Hagrid and Trelawney and Flitwick and Sprout… of Neville and the snake, and of Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle… He told of Molly Weasley and Ron's brilliance and Kreacher leading the house elves into battle. He told of Slughorn returning at the head of some of the Slytherins and the townspeople of Hogsmeade. He told of Aberforth and Oliver Wood and the Order… and though he did not speak of deaths, for now, he knew Snape understood there had been casualties – how could there not have been? He spoke of his own part only in context of the whole of it – of how supported he had been by all of them. He did not speak of his own death – if that was what it had been – or of his discussion with Dumbledore in King's Cross Station, or afterwards, talking with Dumbledore's portrait. When he told of his conversation with Voldemort at the end, of how he'd revealed Snape's part, of the look of confusion and shock on Voldemort's face, Snape's face filled with grim satisfaction, and something like… gratitude.

By the time he was done with the telling, interrupted now and then by Snape's soft questions, tears traced their way down both their faces, though for Harry, it was Snape's tears that triggered his own.

He waited while Snape mastered himself and raised the edge of the blanket to dry his face, looking away as if ashamed to be caught in such weakness. Finally, "Thank you," Snape said hoarsely. For the telling… for finishing it… was left unsaid, but Harry understood.

"I couldn't have done it without you. I _wouldn't _have done it without you," Harry said, equally quietly. It was the truth, and they both knew it. Snape gave one short nod, and with that, something seemed to right itself, as if the Earth tilted back to where it belonged, as if some universal constant had clicked into place. Watching Snape, Harry felt something within him… something in his world, reorient.

_What do we do now?_ he wondered. _Where do we go from here? _It was as if, having arrived at the end, their relationship was over. They'd leave the train as travelers who had shared the journey but had nothing else in common. They'd wish each other well, and… never see each other again. He knew, with a clarity that was almost painful, that that was _not _acceptable, that he wanted something more from this man, that he did not want to… lose him. The thought startled him, but he kept that reaction to himself.

It was odd to see Snape as a… a _person_… a _man_… rather than as an enemy, someone on the other side… someone not to be trusted. It struck him that he probably trusted Snape more than anyone else in his life, that he _could_ trust him – completely. Sure, he was likely still a snarky, sarcastic git, but… that was predictable, and constant, and just… personality. The _man _was true. He watched Snape with new eyes, clearer eyes, maybe… and decided he respected and admired the man.

All this flitted into his mind and took up residence in the brief moments between finishing his tale and the door to the infirmary opening to allow McGonagall entrance. He looked up at the intrusion, then back at Snape, who had, he was amused to see, fallen back against his pillows, his eyes closed in feigned sleep. He grinned, then modified that to a smile, and turned to the Headmistress.

She took in the two cups of tea, both drained, and said, "I see he's been awake."

"Yeah. We were talking. Guess I wore him out."

"Humph. Well… How… how does he seem?" she asked, reaching the bed and patting Snape's hand. Harry was amused to see it twitch.

"Coherent, if that's what you mean. He managed his tea by himself, so his motor control seems intact…" Harry noted the tension in Snape's shoulders and added, "He's not comatose any longer. I'm not sure we should be talking over him like this. Snarky git is likely to hear us and assign detention for disturbing his peace or something." He was gratified when the corner of Snape's mouth twitched briefly upward.

McGonagall snorted softly, then smiled and patted Snape's shoulder, and Harry realized that she was not fooled a whit by Snape's shamming sleep. That was confirmed when she leaned close to Snape's face and said, quite distinctly, "You'll have to assign him points for destroying You-Know-Who, first. It'll take a while to lose all those, Severus!" Rather than waiting to see his reaction, she straightened, one hand still on his shoulder, and addressed Harry. "I'll leave you and Poppy to see to his physical rehabilitation, Potter, but as soon as he's able, I'll want him to consult regarding school opening in fall." Harry watched her hand tighten on Snape's shoulder, and wondered if the man had tensed or twitched under her hand.

"I'll let him know, Professor," he said, grinning at her and receiving a wink in return.

"I'll thank you to stop talking as if I'm not here," Snape growled, then opened his eyes and pushed himself to a sitting position to glare at Harry, then at McGonagall. "Even the ghosts couldn't sleep with you two chattering over them. I thought I was supposed to be convalescing. Don't you have respect for the injured?"

His tone was so droll, dry, and… _Snape_… that Harry laughed in delight. "You're back!" he said with an unrepentant shrug at Snape's growl and glare.

McGonagall ordered Harry away, claiming, "School business, Potter!" When he hesitated, she set her beady eyes on him and said, "I promise not to eat him!"

Harry laughed and felt himself redden at Snape's half-hearted glare. "I'll be back, Professor," he said reassuringly, not failing to note the confused frown in Snape's eyes at that. McGonagall shooed him off, and he left, turning at the door for one last look, as usual, and thinking, but not saying, "I'm not done with you yet."

His step, as he headed to his – _Oh bugger! Snape's_ – quarters, was light and he smiled to himself as he walked, feeling happier than he had since the battle… since _before _the battle… since Dumbledore's death... maybe since forever. Snape was better. He was going to be alright. His step slowed as he reached the dungeons and put his hand out to touch the door to Snape's quarters, as if he could impart a blessing on the place where Snape would shortly take up residence.

_And where would _he _go then?_ he wondered. He was here – had told everyone he was here – because Snape was not yet recovered, not yet out of danger… and he had been determined to stay until the end, either way.

He murmured the password and the door swung open to allow him entry, looking around with new eyes at the piles of books yet to be sorted and shelved, at Snape's belongings arranged on shelves and tables, at the furnishings and small touches he and the faculty and the house elves had added to make the quarters more habitable, more comfortable, and he was hit with a wave of uncertainty and loss. _He'd _been comfortable here, too, but… he was an intruder, really… into Snape's things, his rooms, his life… and soon it would be time to pay the piper for that intrusion… and to put an end to it.

He walked through the rooms, fingers trailing across shelves and the spines of books, potions equipment and chairs… the walls themselves, as if memorizing, as if saying goodbye. He'd have to pack his things. If he knew anything about Severus Snape, it was that the stubborn, bloody independent, _genius _of a man would be down here as soon as he was able – sooner than Harry, McGonagall, or Madam Pomfrey wanted him to be. Harry had better be prepared to leave.

Saddened by the thought, but resolved to be glad _for Snape_, he entered… _Snape's _bedroom, gathered some things, and took himself off for a bath, some part of him making him linger over every step, relishing it while he could – being here, among Snape's things, where he had somehow come to feel at home.

…oooOOOooo…

After his bath, Harry dressed, grabbed his most recent reading, and headed back to the infirmary cataloging progress on repairs as he went. Every trip through the castle was different, more spectacularly so, now, than during his school years, as repairs meant some areas were blocked by workmen, while others, newly mended or cleared, were open. Staircases that hung drunkenly or moved precariously days before became usable as the castle's inherent magic worked to heal its wounds, in concert with the work of the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Maintenance.

The resulting circuitous route this afternoon took him up past Dumbledore's office, then down three flights, back to the fourth floor. That left him on the opposite side of the castle from where he needed to be, and he shook his head in frustration. None of the secret passages was safe to use yet, so there were no shortcuts to be taken. Growling under his breath, he decided to ignore hazards and head directly down the corridor to the infirmary, picking his way carefully through dust and debris.

He should have known better. He _did _know better, actually, but patience was never his strong suit. He'd stepped over fallen gargoyles and suits of armor, and around fallen blocks of wall, careful to watch his footing lest he turn an ankle on a bit of stone, and was making his way down what appeared to be a relatively clear area, covered in grit and dust but obstruction-free, focused on the floor and the nooks in the wall, in case anything was ready to topple over. He merely forgot to scan the ceiling, as well, as he went. As it was, the grinding, crunching sound of stone working loose overhead echoed through the deserted corridor, making it impossible to locate the danger before the stone fell and struck him on the left side of his head and his shoulder. He didn't even have time to finish the thought that McGonagall was going to have his bollocks in blisters before the world went dark.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Everything in the Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers. The plot of this work of fanfiction belongs to me, and I alone am responsible for its content. No galleons are being made from this work.

* * *

**Never Done**  
Chapter 7

He woke to the murmur of concerned, irritated voices, and a terrible headache that did not react well when he opened his eyes. He moaned and shut them again, raising a hand to his head to find bandages wrapped around it, bulkier on the left side.

"Potter! You're awake!" McGonagall's voice made him wince, and he moaned again. "Here – don't open your eyes yet."

"Too late," he groaned – quietly, as the sound of his own voice seemed to grate along the bones of his head in a way that sent pain lancing through him. He wondered if he had broken his skull.

The light filtering through his eyelids dimmed, and someone patted his shoulder. "It should be alright now," Madam Pomfrey's voice said. "Open your eyes a little." He did so, and could see a blur that moved past him. "I'm sorry you cannot have your glasses just yet. The bandage is in the way," Pomfrey said. He went to nod, but stopped at the sharp pain that spiked over his left ear, letting out a slight gasp.

"Don't move, Potter. You need some pain potion, no doubt, but we had to wait for you to waken. You'll need to stay awake the rest of the day, unfortunately, now you're back with us. You took quite a blow." She continued talking softly as she bustled about. Harry could hear the soft clink of potion vials at his side. Her hand came into view, and she held a blue vial in front of him, halting at a hiss from further away.

"The other one first, Poppy," a voice rasped. _Snape._

Without hesitation, Madam Pomfrey withdrew her hand, substituted a green vial for the blue, and held it to his lips. He sipped at it; swallowing it in one go was beyond him at the moment. The pain echoing in his skull receded significantly, but did not entirely disappear. The blue vial followed, and his thoughts cleared, though his head still throbbed and he suspected that, should he move it, the payment would still be in pain.

Poppy patted his shoulder lightly. "You'll need both again in a few hours, Potter. Let me know if the pain worsens intolerably before then."

Inadvertently, he went to nod, and a groan escaped him again.

"No moving," she repeated, as if that wasn't perfectly obvious. He didn't bother to reply. When he started to close his eyes, she tapped his arm. "You need to stay awake, Potter."

"How'm I supposed to do that if I can't even move? The ceiling is not all that interesting," he asked, keeping his voice to a whisper.

An exasperated sound came from the bed to his left. Snape again.

"Severus, could you…?"

"I'll handle it, Poppy. If he drifts off, I'll just use a stinging hex on him," Snape said.

Madam Pomfrey protested, while Harry snorted, a smile playing about his lips. _Snarky git!_ he thought, and smiled wider. _At least the snarky git was here to hex him!_ The thought was immensely comforting, and he felt himself drifting.

"Potter!" Snape's sharp voice interrupted what was sure to be a soft descent into sleep.

"Hmm?" he said drowsily.

"As long as you're here, you might as well entertain me. Tell me a story."

"What?" Harry asked in confusion.

"Tell me what you were doing this past year while you were neglecting your studies," Snape said, as if demanding an explanation for skipping out on Potions class.

That stung. _Snarky git!_ Harry felt a rush of defensive adrenaline, and came more fully awake.

"What's the matter? Snake venom affect your memory? In case you're permanently addled and have developed amnesia, I was a little busy trying to defeat a dark wizard!"

"Ah yes," Snape drawled, as if the response was as valid as skiving off Potions for Quidditch practice, "by _hiding_, no doubt."

"_No, you stu –" _Harry cut himself off before he could finish.

"Temper, Mr. Potter!" Snape drawled in amusement.

_Gods! Why had he even bothered with the man?_

"Suppose you enlighten me, then," Snape continued after a moment. There was panting and a couple of soft gasps, and Harry wondered what Snape was doing. Suddenly, he appeared in Harry's view, his pale face looming over him, surrounded by a blurry black curtain that was his hair. "Look at me, Potter," he said, and without a thought, Harry's eyes were drawn to the two hazy black orbs over him. He felt the brush of Legilimency, but had neither the strength nor the will to resist. He could practically feel Snape sorting through his memories, seeking the beginning… the escape from Privet Drive… his last words with Dudley… the crunch of a teacup underfoot…

Snape moved his wand over Harry's face, and Harry followed the thin, blurred line of it as Snape flicked it toward the ceiling, where, bizarrely distorted by the ceiling's architecture, his last morning at Privet Drive was projected, the images moving, shifting, hazy, then clear, then hazy again, as his memory alternately sharpened and blurred. He stared, fascinated, as some part of him noted that Snape's black hulk had left his space.

"Tell me about it, Potter," Snape demanded again, though softly now.

"I was in my room, sorting my things," Harry began, and the images moved. He told the whole of it. Snape's questions caused the images to shift, to sharpen, as he turned Harry's attention to specific events, specific things around him. It was bizarre, fascinating, terrifying to relive it this way. The arrival of the thirteen members of his rescue team, seeing Fred, almost made Harry's heart stop, and sensing this, Snape moved him on with a well-timed question. As Harry spoke and they watched, Snape's murmurs of approval and support, or snorts of amusement or derision or criticism kept Harry anchored to _here_, to _now_, keeping him from being lost in the past.

A sound of distress caught his attention. The ceiling reflected an unconscious, blood-drenched George Weasley, being supported by a nearly equally bloodied and staggering Remus Lupin, stumbling as they appeared in front of the Burrow. Harry's attention wavered and the image blurred.

"No!" Snape called involuntarily, then barked a sharp, "Keep going, Potter." Harry turned his attention back to the memory – George being helped into the house by Remus and Harry, his bloodied ear, Molly's reaction, Ginny's reaction… Fred showing up with Mr. Weasley… Fred…

Harry kept replaying that in his mind – Fred's reaction to George's gaping wound… the joke between them reassuring everyone… Fred… Tears trickled down his face as he watched, strengthening that memory, holding onto it as if it was precious, which it was.

"_Enough, Potter!_" Snape snarled. Harry's attention snapped to the man in the bed next to him, the abruptness of his movement as he turned toward Snape completely stopping the scene on the ceiling as a sharp pain lanced through his head like a well-aimed _Crucio_. When he opened his eyes again, afraid to move his head back to centerline, Snape was clutching the coverlet over his knees, a look of revulsion and hatred on his face.

"Thank you for reminding me how you see me, Potter," the man ground out at last, and, trembling, he turned away, laid down, and drew the covers up until only the top of his head was visible.

"What?" Harry asked in bewilderment. There was no answer. "Professor – what? I wasn't –"

"Be silent, Potter. I need my rest."

"But –"

"SILENCE!" Snape roared, hurting both his own throat and Harry's head, effectively silencing both of them.

After a few stunned moments, Harry carefully turned his head back toward the ceiling, and lay awake, trying to make sense of what had just happened, tears of mixed pain and confusion leaking down the side of his face, soaking into the bandage around his head.

_He doesn't know Fred's gone… _he realized, long minutes later. _He thinks I was dwelling on George… on George's ear. He thinks I was replaying what he did to George._

Once he figured that out, the solution was clear. "Professor?"

_No answer._

"Professor Snape, are you awake?"

_Nothing._ He daren't turn his head to look at the man. He listened instead, trying to tell by Snape's breathing whether he was truly asleep or feigning, but the man breathed so lightly that he couldn't tell. Either that or he'd set a silencing charm around himself so that Harry couldn't hear him.

Harry felt himself drifting, and jerked awake. He wasn't supposed to sleep. _Concussion. Right._ But it was hard to stay awake without Snape talking at his side. He solved that by talking aloud, as he had talked to Snape throughout his recovery, until the man had awoken.

"I'm still here, Professor. I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not done with you yet, you see. You still don't know… you still don't get it. I know what you did for us – for all of us, all those years. I know what you sacrificed. I know what you lost. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if that's what it takes."

He sighed.

"You'll hate that, though, won't you?" Tears leaked from his eyes again. "You think I'm… you think I'm just some stupid, arrogant, judgmental, impulsive _child_… who got lucky. And I _did_ get lucky. I'm lucky to have friends who stuck with me… I'm lucky to have had teachers and advisors who guided me and trusted me… I'm lucky to be born to parents who died to protect me. And… I'm lucky _you _were there, all along… saving me, and teaching me, even when I didn't know it… leading me to what I needed to do. I wouldn't be here without you, Professor. A thousand times, I'd have been lost, dead, more than likely. Everyone thinks I'm a hero, but they're wrong. All I had to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other. _You're_ the one… you're the one who took all the risks, laid his life on the line, again and again. You're the one who gave your _life_ – not in a single moment, but _every day_, every minute, every hour, every choice… for twenty years. I'll never be the hero you are. Never. I'll never be half the man you are."

He said that last in a whisper, choked out on a sob. _Why am I here?_ he wondered. _He'll never have me._

"_Oh, god,_" he choked out, sudden realization flooding him, and he gave into his sobbing, his head pounding with it, until he passed out from pain.

…oooOOOooo…

In the bed next to him, Snape lay frozen, a silencing spell around him keeping the boy from hearing his gasps and the sobs he tried to stifle. _What's wrong with me?_ he thought, angered and frightened by his lack of control.

_Frontal lobe damage. Snake venom_, some part of his mind cataloged with clinical impartiality, but his conscious self shook that off and demanded he exert _control_.

After a while, the boy's sobs cut off abruptly, a strangled, "Oh, god!" followed by utter silence. Snape listened a moment. When no further sounds came from the bed next to his, he turned onto his back and looked to his right. The boy was limp.

"Potter," he hissed. "Potter, stop this melodrama this instant!"

_Nothing._ He propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at the boy's face. It was pale and slack, his mouth open and drool trickling down the side of his face. "Potter!" he demanded loudly. _Nothing._ Cursing, he reached a hand out to the table between their beds and grabbed a wand – Potter's, not his own. No matter. He flicked it at Poppy's door, through which she burst moments later.

"Severus, are you –" she began.

"It's Potter," he cut her off. "He… suddenly stopped talking. I think he…"

"Oh, dear!" Pomfrey said as she reached Potter's bed. "What happened?"

"I… he… we were talking… and he got upset…"

Poppy spared a moment to glare at him, and Snape felt both reassured and defensive at that. "I didn't _do _anything, you wretched woman!" he spat, crossing his arms over his chest.

She glanced at Potter's wand in his hand, and he placed it deliberately on the nightstand, holding her gaze challengingly, his face stony. She relented, and her face softened. "Of course not, Severus," she said, and turned her eyes back to Potter, running her wand over his body, pausing at his head where it produced a sickening reddish-orange glow that could mean nothing good. Snape winced involuntarily. Poppy "tsk'd" and muttered, "Poor boy. It's always him, isn't it?"

"Yes," Snape said through gritted teeth, and she looked at him in amusement.

"Well, at least he's got you watching his back."

_Why did that make him feel guilty?_

Poppy bustled around Potter, driving Snape to distraction with constant movement and muttering. "Can you not _Renervate_ him?" he finally ground out.

"Not with a major head injury, Severus, you know that," she said without looking at him, doing some bloody thing or another to the boy. Snape pushed himself shakily to a sitting position, and her glance pinned him there, communicating without words that he was not to do anything so foolish as to attempt to get out of bed. Eventually, she stopped fussing at Potter's side, sighed, and turned to Snape.

"Let me know when he wakes, or if he's in pain, won't you, Severus?"

"I am not his nursemaid!" he snarled, then bit back whatever wanted to come out of his mouth after that, at Poppy's disapprovingly pursed lips.

"_He's_ been sitting _here_, watching _you_, every day – _every day_, Severus Snape! I can hardly get him to leave to eat or bathe! He's put his life and his grieving on hold – _for you_! The least you can do is –"

"_Enough!_ You've made your point!" he said, cutting her off. He'd begun loudly, but moderated his volume nearly immediately, glancing at Potter's face to judge whether that had caused the boy pain, even in his… sleep? Unconsciousness? He shifted uncomfortably, drew the blanket up to cover his shoulders, and crossed his arms over his chest again. "I shall watch him and inform you of his condition when he wakens."

Poppy sniffed, then turned from Potter's bed to fluff Snape's pillow behind him. She patted him on the knee, and then, to his shock and horror, gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. "You're a good man, Severus," she said, and turned to walk away, leaving him to stare after her in confusion.

He finally called on years of mental discipline and shoved his confusion aside, an effort that cost him far more than it should have, adding frustration to the mix until he recalled _Nagini. Venom. Frontal lobe. _That recognition aided his self-control. Once his mind was calm and clear, he turned to contemplate Potter, lying pale and still in the bed next to his. He let out a long sigh. "You're going to be the death of me yet, Potter," he muttered, and a wave of something familiar rolled through him. Gratitude, maybe, that the young man was still alive, though if he continued to take foolish risks, as he apparently had been, to end up here again, how long that would last was anyone's guess. He snorted. The boy needed a minder!

He studied Potter's face, recollecting other times the young Gryffindor had ended up in the infirmary – that first year, so long ago, when he lay here unconscious after having confronted a seventh of Voldemort's soul, hidden in Quirrell's turban. He cataloged the times the boy had been in danger since, worsening every year – Tom Riddle's diary and the damned basilisk, chasing after his godfather – in the company of a werewolf, for Merlin's sake! – only to come face-to-face with the _true _betrayer of his parents' trust, Pettigrew. The thought of Pettigrew turned his stomach, and a growl worked its way up from his gut. He forced it down and continued his inventory. The twice-damned Triwizard Tournament – _What the bloody hell were you thinking, Albus? – _a year-long, twisted plot to get Potter into the Dark Lord's and Pettigrew's clutches, so that Voldemort could regenerate, the particulars of which he had never heard, but no doubt horrific, if Pettigrew's silvery hand and the bleeding wound on Potter's arm were any indication – not to mention the Diggory boy's death… And Moody. Mad-Eye Moody, dead now, his body never recovered… Snape shifted to ease the pressure on his buttocks. That insane, utterly unnecessary travesty of a "rescue mission" in the Ministry that had cost the boy his godfather, and left him and his friends scarred in more way than one… and that bloody, devastating, terrifying… no… there were no words to describe the boy's last year at school, let alone whatever he must have suffered while on the run… and then while facing Voldemort _yet again_. How many times had he been, once again, against all odds, _The Boy Who Lived_?

Potter's sixth year had been… a mess. It started as a mess, the old man's madness – albeit necessary in the end - about hunting down bits of Voldemort's soul had cost him his arm… and his life. If he'd not been poisoned… _No! _ It was… it _is_… what it is. No _if only_'s… hadn't he played that game often enough in the last twenty years… the last twenty-three? He could go mad chasing down all the _if only_'s… altering the lines of probability and possibility, if only in imagination. But if he could have spared Potter… if he could have spared Albus… Moody… Diggory… Charity Burbage… and how many others…

It occurred to him that he did not know… that he did not _want _to know… though he would eventually, he knew, have to ask. What was the cost of Voldemort's death? How many had died amongst his colleagues, his students… He paused at that. They had been _his _students, damn it! And he'd failed them. Tears caused his eyes and the bridge of his nose to prickle, and he shook himself into awareness, berating himself for being a self-pitying, self-indulgent fool.

There had been so many misjudgments in the war… so many false trails and accusations, so many lost opportunities to help. Angrily, he dashed tears from his eyes. _Control yourself, damn it! Venom. Snake venom. This. Is. Not. Real. _But he knew that that, at least, was untrue. Venom did not _cause_ emotion, only lack of control over its expression. He forced himself to think about it clinically, from a Potion Master's perspective, and it calmed him.

_Potter. Focus on Potter._

He cataloged the boy, then, noting his smallness – thin, still shorter than most of his classmates, small, square hands atop the coverlet showing old, healed scars, others on his face and neck, faded, but still visible.

_He's been through so much, _he thought, and that triggered tears again. _Merlin! Was he going to turn into some undisciplined fool of a man? Some use to the Order he'd be if he couldn't even –_

His thoughts gave a hitch and his breath caught in his chest. _Merlin and all the gods… it's over! Voldemort is dead – truly dead and gone, if Potter is to be believed… and their survival certainly suggested Voldemort was gone. The Order would have disbanded, then, in the months I've lain here, comatose… _He found he resented that – that they would have moved on without him. Minerva was Headmistress now. He couldn't blame the Board of Governors for that – he'd be lucky to escape Azkaban, given the past year… given Dumbledore's death. They'd treated him, brought him back to consciousness and life, only to throw him into one of Azkaban's darkest holes, no doubt. _Well… I suppose they need a scapegoat_, he thought in desperate resignation.

He wondered how much time he would have before the Aurors came to haul him to some mockery of a trial… before he was condemned to a Dementor's kiss. He raised a trembling hand to brush hair out of his eyes. There was no hope of escape – he was simply too weak, and… he did not even know where his wand was. And as he was no longer Headmaster, the castle's magic would no longer be at his disposal – though no doubt, it would be so focused on repairing itself that there'd be little to spare in any case.

He watched Potter's chest rise and fall, watched as the boy twitched in memory or pain or whatever had had him sobbing before he passed out, and worked on resigning himself to his fate.


	8. Chapter 8

**Never Done**

Chapter 8

Potter stirred, moaned. Snape was instantly alert, hesitant, repentant. "Potter!Potter, wake up," he demanded quietly. "Open your eyes, boy!"

The boy groaned again.

"Don't do that!" Snape snapped, still quietly. "You'll make it worse and pass out on me again."

A flicker of pain washed across the boy's face, and he looked suddenly older than he had when his face was slack. Snape inhaled sharply and grimaced in sympathy. "Don't move your head, Potter. You've no doubt figured out you've managed to break your skull – achieving on your own that which I so longed to do while you were at school," he drawled.

The boy's lips twitched encouragingly at that, and he raised a hand to his head, feeling the bandage. When he dropped his hand, Snape could see a glitter of green under the black lashes. He took Potter's wand from the table, waved the shutters over the window so that they kept the light from hitting the boy directly, and flicked it toward Poppy's door. The pain on Potter's face faded a bit, but did not go away entirely. Poppy emerged from her office at a business-like pace.

"Ah, you're back with us, Potter," she said. "Here – take these." She handed him the green vial, and then the blue, and one side of her mouth ticked up at Snape's approving nod.

Potter answered to Poppy's questions about pain, and those designed to ensure his mental faculties were intact, so quietly that Snape could not hear them clearly, despite that he was merely a meter or so away. He practically held his breath, catching glimpses of the boy's pale face as Poppy moved toward and away from the head of Potter's bed as she reached for vials and conjured a glass, which she filled with a swift _Aguamenti. _She held it for Potter and allowed him to sip through a straw.

"Try to stay awake, dear," she said, patting the boy's shoulder. "And try not to let him upset you." She glanced at Snape, but, confusingly, her face held a smile, not disapproval. She bent and whispered something into Potter's ear that brought a swift smile to his lips, patted his shoulder, and turned toward Snape.

She checked him over, waving her wand and nodding in satisfaction. She asked him questions about potions that he knew were designed to test his memory. He answered easily, calmly, relieved more than he let on that he had not, apparently, lost his fund of knowledge. "Feeling stronger?" she asked, and he murmured agreement. "You'll no doubt suffer some consequences of the poison," she said.

"I know."

"You may be more emotional than usual, Severus," she specified, then she patted his cheek and laughed when he batted away her hand with a scowl, saying, "What are you doing, woman?"

"It'll be good for you," she said, smiling at him.

"Cheeky witch," he muttered.

She laughed. "Do you need anything?"

"My wand."

She looked at him blankly for a moment. "Shacklebolt's got it."

He froze, then forced himself to relax. "Of course." _They would have confiscated it. They'd probably snapped it by now._

"You'll get it back, Severus. They had to take it as evidence."

He felt unease at that. "_Priori Incantatum_," he murmured.

"Naturally. Pensieve aside, they had to check, you know."

Taken aback, he stared at her. _The Pensieve? Gods and demons!_

She seemed to understand his concern. "It's alright, Severus. As I understand it, only the Minister, Minerva, and a few members of the Order have directly viewed… whatever was in it. Potter insisted."

He flicked his eyes to the boy, who was staring at the ceiling. "Who is Minister?" Snape asked.

Poppy looked confused. "Shacklebolt, of course."

"And… who heads the Wizengamot?"

"That's yet to be determined. But that need not concern you…"

"Of _course_ it concerns me, you idiot woman!" he said, his voice tight and louder than he had intended. "I want to _know_ who it is who is going to send me to Azkaban!" He clenched his hands to still their trembling.

"_Azkaban?_ You're not going to Azkaban!" Poppy seemed to get it, then. "Severus – you've been exonerated! Cleared! You needn't set foot in Azkaban – not ever, unless you wish to visit your former Death Eater colleagues."

"They were _never _my colleagues!" he snapped, gripping his blanket so tightly the fibers started to separate.

"Of course," she said. "Let's say… acquaintances, then."

"Enemies."

"Enemies," she concurred. "It's alright, Severus, really." She patted him again, and turned back to Potter a moment, twitched his blankets to cover him more completely, as the castle was drafty, despite the summer heat. Snape was barely aware of her movements. She turned, then, and returned to her office.

_Exonerated. _

_Cleared._

He was shaking and could not seem to control that. Hot tears ran from the corners of his eyes. He was exhausted, too tired to even slide down in the bed, and he sat, collapsed helplessly against the pillows and headboard, fighting unsuccessfully against sobs that wracked his body and sapped his remaining energy. He never noticed Potter, laying with his eyes open, determinedly staring at the ceiling, tears tracking once more down the sides of his face to soak into his hair and the bandage that cradled his aching skull.

…oooOOOooo…

Harry measured the passage of time by the slant of light and shadow through the half-shuttered windows. Madam Pomfrey came to check on him frequently, once she realized Snape had fallen asleep. When she "tsk'd" at that, Harry was torn between defending the Professor and protecting his privacy. He opted for the latter, and simply said, "He must be tired. It hasn't exactly been calm for him, these first twenty-four hours he's been awake. He's… he's just sleeping, isn't he? He's not in a coma again?"

"Just sleeping," she assured him, and waved her wand. He heard Snape's bed creak, and assumed she had moved Snape to a more comfortable position. "Do you want a house elf for company? You really should stay awake."

"No, thank you. I'll be fine. I'll just… revise Potions or something."

He barely had time for that. No sooner had Madam Pomfrey returned to her office than footsteps he recognized as Professor McGonagall's entered through the infirmary door, and her concerned face appeared above him.

"Why is it, Mr. Potter, that even in the absence of Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Voldemort himself, you _still_ manage to nearly kill yourself? Don't answer that," she said before he could do more than open his mouth. "I don't want to know." She patted his shoulder. "Do you need anything?"

"'m thirsty," he said after a moment's survey.

"Hmm… we'll have to check with Poppy about that. Hagrid wanted to see you, but I believe that would be too much for your head to stand. Molly and Arthur will be here momentarily, and your friend Ronald, after he's done at the Ministry. I'm fending off everyone else – not as much for you as for Severus – but Kingsley will be here within the day."

With that, she turned to Poppy's office. When she returned, she brought him a glass of pumpkin juice, which he sipped gratefully, as she held the straw to his lips. His eyes prickled when he realized she was choosing to do that personally, rather than spelling the glass to hover nearby. "Thank you," he said when he had drunk his fill. "That helps." She "hmm'd" again and turned to Snape.

"He's sleeping," Harry said unnecessarily.

McGonagall sighed and made some motion that Harry saw only out of the corner of his eye, but suspected was smoothing Snape's hair from his face. He felt… jealous… of that again, and, recognizing the feeling for what it was, shut his eyes and shook his head slightly. _Merlin, if Snape ever knew I'm harboring some kind of… crush… on him, he'd hex my bollocks off!_ Before he could get too lost in his confusion over that, the infirmary doors opened.

"Harry!" Molly Weasley's voice gasped, and "Now, Molly!" Arthur's voice cautioned. They both appeared at his bedside. Mrs. Weasley had tears in her eyes and Mr. Weasley was pale, but smiled at him encouragingly. Not unexpectedly, Mrs. Weasley's worry turned to scolding.

"_Whatever _were you _thinking_?" she demanded softly, soothing his fringe from his eyes. Her touch was gentle, and something in Harry unwound and relaxed at that.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. You didn't have to come," he said.

"Nonsense," Mr. Weasley protested at his other side. "We're your family, Harry. Of course we'd come." Harry's eyes prickled again as he wondered if that would still be true if they knew he was… _Was what? Was not going to end up with Ginny, apparently – that much was clear_.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and tears did come then, and Mrs. Weasley made a small sound of dismay, pulled a pocket square from her robe and dried his tears, kissing his forehead, while Mr. Weasley tightened his hand on Harry's shoulder. It didn't help him stop crying – in fact, the reverse – but it comforted him nonetheless.

Arthur moved away, and Harry heard him step around him until he must have been at Snape's bedside. "Good afternoon, Severus," he said warmly. "It's good to have you back with us." Snape was evidently awake. "Minerva told us you'd come back to the land of the living."

"Arthur…" A pause. "Molly."

"Here – let me help you," Mr. Weasley said. The expected protest did not come, and Harry was somewhat irked by that. It was fine for Mr. Weasley to help Snape, but not him? Before he could dwell on that overmuch, Snape asked, "How is he?"

_I'm right here, you snarky git! _Harry wanted to protest, but Mrs. Weasley said, in a gentle voice, "He's doing fine, Severus. Don't look so worried."

_Worried? Snape was worried about him? _He wanted to see that, see what Mrs. Weasley saw that made her think that, and turned his head to the left so he could do so. A sharp, stabbing pain shot from the base of his skull behind his left ear up to the top of his head, and he gasped and cried out.

"Don't. Move. Potter! How many times do you need to be told? _Lie. Still_," Snape grated out. Harry felt a rush of magic wash over him, and a nonverbal _Immobilus_ froze him in position, unable to move anything, not even his eyes.

Mrs. Weasley swam into view through the tears of pain, and she flicked her wand with one hand while she touched his arm reassuringly with the other. "I've sent for Poppy, dear."

Sure enough, Poppy burst through the doors again at a run. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she said. "Potter, you _must _stay still!" She checked him over, waving a wand. "Whose _Immobilus_ is this?" she asked.

"Mine – with his wand," Snape's voice responded.

"That was well done, Severus," she said approvingly.

"I didn't have time to be specific…"

"It's fine. Perhaps you could…"

There was a moment's silence, then, "Potter would, I'm sure, prefer you –"

"Nonsense."

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said, and his red hair and pale face came into view. "Would you mind if Severus spelled you again? If I guess correctly, I believe Poppy means to cancel the spell, then renew it on your head only."

"It can be more specific than that – his neck, his hips… leave his arms free."

"Just so, Severus, if you please," Poppy said.

"He hasn't said –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Severus!" Poppy's exasperated face came into Harry's view. "Potter, Professor Snape is going to remove the _Immobilus._ _Don't move._ Then he's going to reset it so you're not completely immobilized. Do you understand?" Without waiting for a reply she knew he could not give, she said, "Severus…"

"_Finite Incantatum_," Snape murmured.

"Wait! Before you immobilize me again, can you leave my mouth and eyes alone?" Harry said, panicked. He _hated _being immobilized! "And my arms at least?"

"Certainly, Potter," Snape said, and bit back the sarcastic comment and tone that wanted to escape his mouth. "_Immobilus callum et coxis_," he said clearly, pointing Potter's wand at his neck and hips as he did so.

Harry raised a hand, opened his mouth, and flicked his eyes between Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and relief flooded him. He tried moving his legs, but succeeded only in twisting his ankles and scrunching his toes. Even that was a relief. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"… You're welcome, Potter."

He flicked his eyes to Madam Pomfrey. "Why can't you spell me better? Or heal me with a potion?"

Arthur answered before Poppy could reply. "It's a head injury, Harry. You had a concussion. It might affect your brain. Do you really want someone pointing a wand at your brain?" he asked with a wry smile.

"No, I guess not, but what about my skull?"

"If you stay conscious long enough, Mr. Potter," Poppy said in an acerbic tone, "we'll give you a modified Skelegrow, but until you demonstrate you can tolerate the process without passing out on us, it's too risky. _Do _try to stay awake for a few hours, would you?"

"Yeah," he said, after a long moment. He heard Snape shifting in his bed.

"What do you need, Severus?" Molly asked. There was silence for a moment, then Arthur cleared his throat. "I wonder… Poppy, would you mind erecting some privacy shields around Severus –"

"I'd like to try _walking_," Snape said, from the sound of it, gritting his teeth.

"Around Harry's bed, then?" Arthur finished smoothly.

"Of course, Arthur. I'll just take care of Potter while you assist the Professor…"

More shifting and a quiet grunt were all that Harry could hear. He didn't know why they bothered with a privacy shield – he couldn't see anything but the ceiling, Molly on one side of him, Poppy on the other.

_Oh. Right. Women. _He smirked as he thought about Snape trying to hide his skinny white arse from Molly Weasley as he made his way to the bathroom. "D'you think he remembered to use a levitating spell to help him?" he asked worriedly, and not quite clearly.

Poppy patted his arm. "Arthur has helped many an ill and injured person in his time," she said. "He knows what he's doing, or I wouldn't have let him help."

"'cuz he'll still be weak…"

"He'll be alright."

"What if he passes out?" Harry worried at his bottom lip.

"Harry – he'll be _fine! _ Arthur knows what he's doing," Mrs. Weasley said, patting his other arm.

He plucked uncertainly at the blanket covering him and did not see the amused looks Mrs. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey exchanged, or the slight concern on Mrs. Weasley's face.

"How long am I going to be stuck here?" he asked. If Snape was up and about, he should erase evidence of his presence from Snape's quarters and vacate them. He cringed at the thought of Snape discovering Harry's things in his bedroom before Harry had a chance to clear them away. At least the House elves would have made the bed and taken away his dirty underthings. His journal was on Snape's nightstand, though… and his belongings were scattered throughout Snape's quarters – the small kitchen, his sitting room, even his desk. He winced. Snape would probably castrate him for that. That, and messing with his books. Suddenly, Harry was entirely uncertain about _anything _he, Kreacher, and others had done to "improve" Snape's quarters. At least he had known better than to muck about in Snape's private lab.

Lost in his thoughts, he missed Mrs. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey's conversation. He wasn't even aware that Mr. Weasley and Snape had made it back safely until Madam Pomfrey waved the privacy screen away.

"Sit up or lie down?" Arthur was asking Snape.

"Sit up, if you please." Snape's voice was shaky and he sounded exhausted, but Mr. Weasley did not argue with the man. Harry thought Snape probably needed to lie down, but there were four adults in the room, and _his _opinion would certainly not matter a whit – not that anyone would prevail against Snape in a snit, if he took offense.

"We'll just stay and keep Severus and Harry company until Ronald gets here," Mrs. Weasley said kindly. "Why don't you go eat in the Great Hall, Poppy? I'm sure you'd be glad to get out of here for a while."

A brilliant smile brightened Madam Pomfrey's face, startlingly transforming her into someone young and pretty, and Harry wondered how old she really was. She untied her apron, patted her hair, and turned eagerly to go, thanking Molly with a peck on the cheek. Harry grinned and went to shake his head at his whimsy, but of course, could not move. He blew out a breath and his fringe fluttered.

"Your hair has gotten really long, Harry," Mrs. Weasley noted. "Would you like me to cut it, dear?"

"Maybe when I'm out of here," he said, unconvincingly. "I kinda' like it long." He'd experimented with it, drawing it back with those bits of leather Madam Pomfrey had given him, and soon, he thought, he'd be able to braid it, like Ron suggested.

"You and Bill," Molly laughed. "And Severus, too. You all take after the traditional ways."

"I'm sure _tradition_, is the furthest thing from Potter's mind," Snape interjected.

"Actually, I figured, as we're in Scotland, it's rather appropriate," Harry said. "For non-wartime hair, I mean. Scottish warriors had short hair in combat, so their enemies couldn't grab hold of them, but between wartimes, long hair was common, and they often wore it braided. I like it."

"My, my, Potter. You surprise me. However did you learn such a thing? Or was it something Ms. Granger lectured you about?"

"For your information –" Harry began hotly, but Mrs. Weasley intervened.

"Harry's done practically nothing _but _read, these past three months, Severus. Look at that stack of books!"

Harry could hear soft thumps as someone – he assumed Snape – sorted through the half-dozen or so books piled on the nightstand between the beds. "These are my books, Potter. I don't recall giving you leave to touch my personal belongings."

Harry was going to protest that, no doubt saying something he'd regret, or, more accurately, something Snape would make him regret, when Arthur answered. "He's been reading to you, Severus. He thought your own books would be better than _Tales of Marvin the Muggle._ Poppy agreed."

There was silence, then Severus said, "Umberto Causidicus' tome on wizarding law has been updated. This edition is obsolete. I retain it only for its historical value."

Harry grinned. _Snarky git. Can't even manage a proper "Thank you!"_

"I'm surprised McGonagall allowed you access to my things."

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by the doors to the infirmary opening, and Ron's welcome voice calling, "Harry! I came as soon as Robards would let me go! Are you alright, mate?" He finished as he reached Harry's side.

"He's immobilized," Ron's mother said, but Harry raised a hand in greeting.

"Honestly, Harry, if you wanted to stay here with Snape, all you had to do was say so. I'm sure I could get Hermione to lay off!"

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or die of embarrassment at that. He chose the former, though his laughter was forced.

"I hardly think Potter _planned_ to spend more time in my presence, Weasley," Snape observed.

"Ron whirled toward him. "Blimey! You're awake!"

"An astute observation."

"No – I mean – of course I knew you were awake. McGonagall sent word. But – you don't know how weird it is to see you sitting up and moving, and with your eyes open!"

"Indeed, it is a wonder," Snape said dryly, and Harry stifled a laugh at Ron's face.

"I need to get back to the Ministry, Severus," Arthur broke into the awkwardness. It's good to see you looking so well. Molly, I'll be home for dinner. Harry – _do _try to get through a day without injuring yourself, will you? I've about used up my floo allowance for the month!"

"Sorry –" Harry began, but Molly patted his shoulder while mock-scowling at Arthur, and saying, "Oh, you! Go on with you, then! And give my regards to Kingsley."

She turned back to Harry. "I'll be going, too, then, now that Ronald's here."

"Thanks for coming, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said. "I'm sorry for making you worry."

"Hush, dear, that's all right. I'm your moth- You're like a son to me," she said with a sniff.

"Yeah – you know how Mum is – never happy 'less she's worried about someone!" Ron said. His mother swatted his arm affectionately.

After several minutes spent instructing Ron not to say or do anything to distress Harry or Snape, and bustling about tucking them both in more securely, which Snape tolerated silently, to Harry's surprise, Molly left, finally leaving Harry, Ron and Snape alone. Ron looked over Harry's bed toward Snape. "He's asleep," he observed.

"Good," Harry said. "He needs it."

"He looks uncomfortable, sleeping sitting up like that."

"Could you…?"

"What? Oh! Yeah, sure," Ron said, and took out his wand, waved Snape to a prone position, carefully replacing blankets, though he looked queasy as he did so. He turned to Harry. "So what did you do – get on his bad side and he hexed you? Mum didn't say."

"No," Harry admitted, and, chagrined, told Ron what had actually happened.

"Honestly, mate, you'd think the castle would protect you, you being its defender and all."

"All of us defended her, Ron," Harry reminded him quietly.

"Yeah." Ron looked over at Snape. "So – how is he?"

If Harry could have shrugged, he would have. "He's – himself, actually. Snarky as always. Only…"

"Only what?"

"Only he's… more… emotional, you know? Pomfrey says it's frontal lobe damage from Nagini's poison."

"Bilmey!" Ron studied the man's sleeping face. "Think he'll be snarkier than usual?"

Harry snorted. "I doubt it. Can't _get _much snarkier, the git."

Something in his tone caught Ron's ear. "What did he do to you, Harry?"

"Nothing. I just…"

"What?" Harry hesitated so long Ron started to look worried. "What is it, mate?"

"Ron, I… I think I'm gay," Harry said, nearly whispering. There was silence, and Ron's face went blank. Harry clenched his hands in his blankets, holding his breath, waiting for Ron's reaction.

Ron opened and shut his mouth several times, looking rather like a fish gulping water. Finally, he seemed to find his voice. "You're not gonna tell me you want to snog, are you?" he pleaded. "Because, much as I love you, mate, I really don't know how I'd explain that to Hermione!"

Harry laughed weakly, sighed in relief, and relaxed his hold on his blankets. "No worries, Ron. I don't think I have a thing for redheads."

"Yeah – I kinda gathered. Ginny."

"I… I think the problem with Ginny is she's a girl, actually."

Ron laughed. "So, who've you…" He stopped and looked to his right. "Are you…? Harry! You're not…" He gulped. "Don't tell me you've a thing for _Snape_!" he whispered hoarsely.

"No! Of course not!" Harry protested. He could feel himself blushing, and wondered why the _Immobilus _didn't keep that from happening.

"Good, because I don't fancy Snape as a brother-in-law!"

"What?"

"You know – if you married him, he'd be my brother-in-law, you being an honorary Weasley and all."

Harry was overwhelmed with warmth for Ron. "Ron, I seriously love you right now!" he said without thinking.

"Oi!" Ron said, raising his hands in protest.

"That's not what I mean, you git!"


	9. Chapter 9

The usual disclaimers apply. Jo's lovely world, characters, setting... My imagination. No galleons exchanged...

* * *

**Never Done**  
Chapter 9

Harry sent Ron away after an hour. It was more tiring than he'd have thought to lay immobile and carry on a conversation, and he wanted some time to himself, anyway, to contemplate… things. Listening to Snape's soft, rhythmic breathing next to him, he thought about the past few months – watching Snape, reading to him, running his fingers through the ever-longer black hair, surreptitiously holding his hand whenever Pomfrey left them alone… How had he missed it?

And what did it mean, anyway? He knew he'd been having dreams about the man, but he'd done his best to ignore them, despite his clear disinterest in Ginny. The thought that he might be gay was not entirely new to him, but when had there been time to sort out his sexuality, really? Since the end of his first year of school, the reality of Voldemort's existence had dominated and determined his life, and there'd been barely time to try to convince himself otherwise by kissing Cho and hanging out with Ginny. His feelings for Ginny were confusing anyway, tied up with genuine liking and true admiration for her skills as a witch and Quidditch player, and the warmth of his inclusion in the Weasley clan. It would be bloody _brilliant _to be Ron's brother by marriage… to know he would always be a part of that family. But… that was unfair to Ginny. He couldn't marry her to get himself a family. But… if he was gay… would he ever _have _a family?

Ron… Ron seemed to take the possibility in stride – as long as Harry didn't want to snog him. Harry snorted. _What would it be like to snog Snape?_ he wondered. They'd probably spend most of their time trying to work around the man's nose and Harry's glasses. He called to mind Snape's face, with its sharp, aquiline nose and shapely mouth… whether thinned in disapproval or pursed in contemplation… Snape's face expressed everything… except when it was so still that it gave away nothing. And his eyes! Harry shivered. Black as onyx and just as cold. He wondered what they would look like warmed. Something stirred in him at the memory of those eyes boring into him during those damned Occlumency lessons… he'd almost _wanted _to open himself up to the man…

His legs widened slightly further apart on the bed involuntarily, and he felt a twitch in his nether regions. He almost laughed. _Well. That was informative. Thank Merlin Snape was asleep._ He snuck one hand under the blanket covering him, then the other, and felt his way down his strangely immobilized hips to the crease at his hip joint, and followed with both hands to poke fingers under his smalls, caressing himself to a lovely awakening. His hips were unresponsive to his need to shift and move, and he continued touching himself as he wondered what it would be like to be pinned down by Snape's long, elegant hands on his hips as he… or Snape… did what? Rubbed against him? Jerked him off? Kissed his way down his belly to…

A groan escaped him, along with a bit of fluid, which he used to slick his hand over himself. _Gods, he needed to move!_ He continued working his hand over himself, keeping his other hand busy as well, imagining Snape leaning over him… holding him down… imagining himself trapped under Snape's weight… under his robes… wondering what it would be like to feel Snape, hard up against him, underneath his robes… to slip a hand down to find what lay beneath… to rub himself up against Snape's own… _Oh god! _He worked himself more frantically, trying to stifle his moans, and finally tightened and came, spurting into his hand, a long, sibilant hiss escaping his lips as he thought of coming in _Snape's_ hand, moaning into Snape's ear. _Ssssseverusssss!_

He lay panting, trying to catch his breath, trying to keep a giggle from escaping his chest, waiting for his heart to slow down, grateful again for Snape's continued unawareness and Madam Pomfrey's absence, though she, no doubt, would make some clinical comment on his returning strength, or caution him not to exert himself. He did laugh then, and pulled a hand out from under the covers, wiping it as he went, and reached out blindly to search for his wand on the nightstand between his bed and Snape's, so that he could cast a cleaning charm before Pomfrey returned. _Or – heaven forbid – Snape woke._ _With that nose of his…_ _Oh, god! He'll smell it!_ He listened, but could barely hear Snape's breathing, still rhythmic… _maybe a bit faster, yeah?_ So the man might be waking up! His search became a bit more frantic, until he encountered the thin stick of wood, gratefully grasping it and bringing it under the covers to his wand hand.

Aiming by feel, he murmured a light _Tergio_, wincing slightly at the sudden dryness that effectively quelled any remaining tumescence, leaving him tight, dry, and vaguely dissatisfied. He repeated the cleaning charm on his hands and the bedclothes, then simply lay holding his wand, snickering lightly from time to time, and thinking of… Snape.

…oooOOOooo…

Snape was dragged awake by soft laughter and the voices of Potter and the youngest Weasley boy talking about… the things teenagers talk about, he supposed, though interspersed with definitively non-teenage subject matter.

"How's Seamus?"

"Better. The burns on his hands are nearly gone. Smarts a bit still, but he'll be alright."

"How's Neville?"

"He's fine. Ginny says he's a real trouper."

"Did you hear from Dean?"

"Yeah. We've got to get him some better Dreamless Sleep. The slop you get at St. Mungo's is worthless."

"Snape's potion is better."

A snort. "No doubt! He _is _a Potions Master!"

"McGonagall says the youngest ever."

"Well, what else has he had to do than master his craft?"

"I dunno – protect me?"

"Yeah. There is that."

Soft laughter. Silence. Then, "He's a good man."

"Yeah. I get that." Silence.

"How's Luna?..."

Snape drifted off to sleep, only to be brought awake by the snick of the infirmary door latching shut. He lay still, listening to Potter's breathing, hoping Weasley had not upset the boy, thinking about their discussion about injured classmates, wondering if names not mentioned had escaped harm or had… _died_. He forced himself to use the word, then had to stifle some sound that wanted to escape his lips. He reached out to touch Potter's thin wand, waved a _Muffliato_, and replaced the wand on the nightstand, without moving more than the one arm that lay atop the covers.

Potter shifted slightly in his bed, but Snape knew the _Immobilus _he had cast would keep the boy's head still. At most, he'd be able to move his arms, and perhaps his legs just slightly, given his hips were immobilized. The boy's breathing increased slightly, and a soft gasp escaped him. That was alarming. Their discussion _had _upset him, then. Another crying jag could be disastrous, set back his recovery for hours, or longer. Snape opened his eyes. The boy's face was taut, as he expected, but the covers twitched, drawing his eyes down to…

Snape's lips twitched in annoyance and amusement. The boy had found something else to occupy himself, then. He stifled a snort. No need to embarrass the…

He was going to think _boy_, but his eyes were drawn once again to the tented, jerking blanket, and the slight involuntary hisses and grunts and sighs that escaped Potter's lips, parted slightly, his tongue flicking out to wet them from time to time. He watched in idle fascination as the boy's pale cheeks turned rosy and white teeth bit down on reddening lips, while his hands worked frantically under the covers.

Some corner of Snape's mind noted his own arousal with clinical distance. _Hydraulics working fine. Check._ The word surfaced from some long-forgotten memory of a discussion with his father. He grimaced, mentally shaking loose that memory. He had long since mastered the art of _staying still_, regardless of provocation, and he called upon that now, merely clenching and unclenching his buttocks, partly in self-stimulation, partly to seek relief. There was no way he was going to bring himself off wanking side-by-side with _Potter_. But his eyes were drawn to the boy's lips, and he found himself wetting his own, and his buttocks' clenching pulled satisfyingly at his bollocks, his rhythm unconsciously matching the beat of Potter's hand. He found himself wondering what Potter looked like, under those blankets… whether Potter's chest was still little-boy bare, or had matured so that there might have been whorls of hair converging in a treasure trail that would lead to…

_Merlin! What am I thinking? _He forced himself to shut his eyes.

Potter tensed, then groaned, and Snape bit on his lips to keep from answering. The boy's jerking hand was accompanied by wet sounds that indicated he was about to come, and Snape ached at that, his own body begging for sweet release. He refused. He refused to touch himself. _What if the boy should hear? What if Poppy showed up – or, heaven forbid, what if McGonagall were to walk through the doors?_ His breathing sped up in mixed anxiety and need, and his clenching sped up as well, accompanied by the smallest of thrusting motions as he listened to Potter finish… wondering what those hands would feel like on him… To his shock, he felt himself tighten, and, moments later, his hips jerked just slightly and he spilled himself onto his covers and the hospital gown he'd woken up in.

Potter groaned again, and the sound of his hand sped up, stuttered… and the boy hissed, a long, sibilant sound, punctuated by a single pause as if he were swallowing, which thought caused Snape's bollocks to give one last spasm, and he fought to control a gasp.

Terrified he'd be found out, he snatched Potter's wand from the nightstand between them, and hastily cast a nonverbal cleansing charm on himself and the bedclothes, relieved that he still could. The boy's hand was out, searching the nightstand, and Snape silently replaced the wand so that Potter could find it, and squeezed his eyes shut again.

_Merlin… he'd just… he'd as good as wanked in front of Harry Bloody Potter! What the bloody hell was wrong with him? _He felt sick. _What's wrong with me?_ _I've got no bloody control!_ He was… embarrassed, at the least. _What was I thinking? _His body gave an interested twitch, and he frantically worked to clear his mind, to control his breathing, and to order himself to _stand down. Breathe. Empty your mind. _His mind appeared to want to wander.

Snape appreciated… _form…_ as well as any other wizard – when he had time for such things. The human body could be as beautiful, elegant, haunting, sensual as… fine wine, an elegant symphony… as bewitching as a well-brewed potion. Few people lived up to his standards of beauty, though. Take Sinistra, for example – excellent form, if only she'd stop running her mouth off about arithmancy, as if magic could be quantified that way – or use it for… other activities. Or Draco Malfoy. He was certainly _objectively_ beautiful, though not Snape's taste in men, even were he old enough and not the son of a Death Eater. Remus Lupin had an orderly, quiet mind that Snape would have found attractive, were it not for his habit of clothing himself as if unworthy. Flitwick was acceptable, if a trifle… short… for a happy… fit… but he was committed to his wife and sons. As for the Death Eaters… Snape shuddered at the thought, and sickened at the memories of what some of their meetings had consisted of. He pulled his mind out of that and thought of… Occasionally, an older student's intelligence and passion for learning would give him a twitch between his legs, but that happened so seldom, and form without intellect just left him cold.

Take Potter, for instance. Despite the boy's – admittedly decreasing – likeness to his father, he was attractive enough. Compact… but Snape liked that in his partners, male or female. Quidditch had toned his young arse and thighs so that the shape of them in his robes or denims had been becoming quite… interesting… the last Snape had had the opportunity to observe. But that had been long ago, and Potter had been on the run for over a year… And who had time for such things, in the middle of war and grief and fear and desperation? And then Snape had been comatose… and Potter had gone and gotten himself nearly killed – _again_ – so…

Snape found his mind back on what Potter might look like unclothed… without a bandaged head… without being stuck to his bed by twin _Immobilus _spells. _A year older…_ It occurred to Snape that Potter had turned eighteen while he, Snape, slept. His eyebrows twitched, and so did his bits. He found that frightening… confusing… and strangely reassuring.

Potter, however, was moving about more in his bed, and it was time Snape ended the charade of pretending to sleep. He allowed himself to move, to inhale deeply, to appear to gradually come awake, giving Potter enough warning to tuck himself back into pajamas… or whatever. Snape controlled a sneer and a smirk, keeping his amusement to himself, and opened his eyes.

Potter waved a hand in the air – his way of indicating he was awake, Snape supposed. "You're awake, I see. Have you managed to amuse yourself enough to not drift off?" Snape asked, his lips twitching as Potter's face reddened.

"Uh – yeah. Just thinking about… potions."

Snape almost laughed aloud at that. "Indeed. I am surprised, Potter. I would think you'd have been glad to leave potions behind, once you left my… tutelage."

Potter snorted. "Not exactly. Potions are dead useful, when you're on the run."

"Indeed," Snape noted dryly. "And… which potions, in particular?"

"Polyjuice…"

"Of course – though I believe you denied any knowledge of polyjuice when last I accused you of stealing from my stores. Is this a confession, Potter?"

"No," the boy said. "I was never in your private stores." He hesitated. "Hermione was."

Snape's eyebrows crawled upward. "Ms. By-the-Book Granger?" he asked skeptically.

"And Dobby."

"And what, pray tell, was a House Elf doing in my stores?" he asked.

"Getting me gillyweed. He must have overheard Neville telling me to use gillyweed in the lake task in the tournament."

"Remind me to deduct House points for his insolence."

Silence. Then Potter said, in a quiet, strained voice, "I don't think it's fair to deduct points posthumously, Professor."

Snape froze. _What? Merlin – the boy had lost his… _"I'm sorry, Potter. I… didn't know."

"He died saving us – me, Ron, and Hermione. And Olivander, Luna, and Dean. When we were captured by Greyback and the Snatchers… They took us to Malfoy Manor, and Dobby found us. Aberforth sent him… and he saved us… and Bella… Bellatrix LeStrange… she threw her kni…knife… as we were disapparating… and it… it hit Dobby in the chest and…" Potter's voice choked off, and Snape, who had frozen in shock at the story, levered himself up to get a better look at the boy.

"Potter," he said. "Potter, damn it!"

"I'm alright, sir," the boy whispered hoarsely, but Snape saw wet tracks down the side of his face. This would never do. The boy would pass out again, and they'd have to start all over. Snape cast about, in a panic, for something neutral to talk about, to distract the boy... something that would not trigger loss and grief, but he simply did not know enough – who had lived, who had died, what Potter had been through. He cleared his throat.

"I understand you've been reading to me – my potions texts," he said, retreating to the well-known subject.

Potter cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes with one hand. "Yeah."

Snape thought of correcting him – _Yes, Sir! _– but recalled an impertinent response to that tactic from several years back. No need to be provocative until the boy was better. "Well – what did you learn?"

Potter sniffed and gave a little laugh.

_Better._

"A quiz, Professor?"

"As you wish. What _have _you been reading for… three months. Surely the words are becoming familiar, if nothing else."'

…oooOOOooo…

Potter grunted, stung. "Git," he muttered, but without sounding the least bit insulting, somehow. He'd have shook his head if he could. _Git! Not awake a full day and already insulting people! _Harry grinned to himself. _Well… that is what I wanted, yeah?_

"Well? I'm waiting, Potter. Dazzle me with your brilliance."

Harry sorted through the things he had been reading this week. "There's an article on wolfsbane potion I think you'd be interested in," he said. "The author thinks he's come up with a once-a-month solution, but I think he's wrong."

"Oh? And why is that?" Snape's interest was piqued, though he drawled his question challengingly.

"He's made two mistakes that I could tell."

Snape's eyebrows quirked.

"First, he didn't take into account that aconite deteriorates over time in a standard potion base, and that the rate of absorption and metabolism in a werewolf is faster than in non-werewolf humans. That's why it has to be taken every day, fresh, the week before a full moon. So… the potion he's made will deteriorate in… efficacy, over the course of the month."

"If the werewolf in question takes the potion within a week prior to the full moon, that should be no problem."

"Agreed, _however…_he recommended a dose every _calendar _month, rather than once a lunar cycle.

"That's absurd."

"That's what I thought!"

"Who is this idiot?"

"Jason Stalk."

"_Stalk_ is brewing _potions_? He couldn't differentiate mugwort from dittany!" Snape said, an incredulous tone in his voice. "Which journal?"

"_Potions Monthly_."

Snape snorted. "I'll have a word with the editor. Of all the lame-brained…"

"Why don't you submit a rebuttal?"

Snape hesitated at that. "I try to keep a low profile, Potter."

"Why?"

Snape shook his head and rolled his eyes. "What part of _double agent _don't you understand?"

"Yeah, but that's over, now. You could write. You _should _write! You know more than any ten potions authors combined!" Harry insisted.

Snape gaped at the… man… in the other bed, astonished at the comment, flung off so spontaneously that… He narrowed his eyes. "Potter… what have you done?"

A perplexed frown flickered over the boy's face. "Done? About what?"

"Why are you uttering inane flattery? What are you up to?"

"What? I'm not… it's not flattery! It's the truth! You know way more than these blokes! Every one of your books is filled with corrections and comments and improvements. I'll bet you're the foremost potions expert in the world!" The boy was waving his hands in emphasis, clearly not paying attention to his audience.

"_Every one _of my books, Potter?" Snape interrupted. "What would you know of _every one _of my books?"

Snape's voice had taken on a still, clear cold that pulled Harry out of his rambling observations.

_Oh no! Bloody hell! He's going to kill me!_

"Ah… I mean… the one's I've… the one's I've seen…"

"I thought Minerva had chosen books for you to read."

"Ah… No. I… I did."

"And how, Mr. Potter, would you come to have access to my collection? And while you're at it, how did you come to have access to _Potions Monthly_? Take up a subscription on your own?" The skepticism and suspicion could not have been clearer in Snape's voice, along with something darker that made Harry's spine tingle unpleasantly.

"I… ah… Professor McGonagall… we've… we've _all _been getting… getting your quarters ready for you. In the dungeon, I mean. Your old quarters. Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall… and the house elves… and… and they let me help… some."

"You've been in my quarters," Snape said flatly, fighting down anger.

"Well, they haven't _been _your quarters, this last year, have they?" Potter said, reasonable and calm. "They've been Slughorn's. And unless you're fond of flowered chintz upholstery and candied pineapple, I... we… we thought you'd prefer your own things." He fell silent while Snape thought of, and rejected, several possible responses, clenching his jaw and hands.

"We could always put it back the way it was when Slughorn had it," the boy suggested, a touch of aspersion in his voice.

"_Professor_ Slughorn," was all Snape could think of to say.

"Yes – _Sir_," Potter said, pouting, his arms crossed over his chest, though the overall effect was blunted, given he was lying down and pinned to his bed.

"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter," Snape growled.

The boy snorted. "I haven't been a student here in a year, Professor. If you're going to deduct points for the actions of former students, you should start with the Slytherins. You do this right, the Hufflepuffs will win the House cup for the first time in living memory!"

Snape couldn't help himself. He smirked… then he chuckled. Then he laughed, and kept laughing until tears ran down his face and his laughter took on a slightly hysterical, manic edge.

At first, Harry had been stunned. Then he joined in Snape's laughter, but now he was alarmed. "Someone hex you with a cheering charm, Professor?"

Snape could not catch his breath to reply, and waved a helpless hand. _Useless. The boy wouldn't even see that._

Nevertheless, after a moment, Potter waved his wand toward the door to Pomfrey's office, and moments later, she bustled out, took one look at Snape and, pursing her lips in a thin line of dismay, flicked her wand to summon a vial of something that caught up with her before she reached Snape's side.

"Severus, get a hold of yourself," she said, to no avail. She thumbed the vial open, noted Snape's panicked look, and said, "Drink it down. Come on – take it. One swallow is all you need to begin. Oh, for heaven's sake, it's a calming draught! What do you _think_ I'd give you – poison? Drink it, I say! That's it." The entire time, she worked to calm Snape physically, a firm hand on one shoulder, moving into his personal space as if to calm him by the mere weight of her presence.

Snape finally managed to swallow a bit – perhaps a teaspoonful – without spitting it out in gales of frightened laughter, and gradually, he calmed enough to take a proper dose. It took effect in moments, and he slumped, exhausted, tears of laughter, fear, and embarrassment leaking from his eyes to soak into his pillow.

"There, now, Severus," Pomfrey said, "you'll be fine. It's just the venom's effect on your emotional control, is all. Nothing to worry about. It's not permanent – just a temporary hitch. It'll work itself out, you'll see." She nattered on as she bustled about, checking him over, straightening things up, and then turning to check on Potter.

"How long?" Snape rasped.

Pomfrey turned back to him. "Well... I've never seen a patient survive with so much venom in them. If it weren't for Potter, here, you would not have lasted another hour. He sent Minister Shacklebolt to get you as soon as the battle was over. Of course, he wasn't Minister then…"

"How long?" Snape repeated, interrupting her chatter.

She hesitated, but finally said, "There's no way to tell, Severus. Perhaps… six months? But the effect should decrease over time. You'll have to be patient with yourself."

"I'll need another vial of that draught," Snape said after a moment, privately considering that he would have to keep a vial on hand at all times, perhaps take it preventively – then immediately dismissed that as dangerous. Calming draught could be addictive.

The same thought had evidently occurred to Poppy. She hesitated.

"For the love of Merlin, Poppy, _I brew _the foul sludge! Do you think I couldn't brew my own _without _your supervision? If you want to monitor my intake, you'll give it to me from the infirmary's stores!" The calming draught tamped his anger down, so that what might have been shouting came out as his typical, dry observations.

Poppy glared at him, then nodded in acquiescence, conceding the point. "You'll come to me for refills?"

"I will," he avowed.

"See that you do, Severus Snape! I'll not have my faculty developing addictions to dangerous substances."

"You have my word."

She softened at that, and said, "Your word is more than enough for me, Severus. Now – how about some supper?"

…oooOOOooo…

Potter stayed awake and conscious long enough for Poppy to administer Skelegrow to see to the knitting of his cracked skull, and the first hour of that treatment had exhausted the boy. Snape distracted him from the pain by asking questions about his reading, and by picking up where Potter had left off reading one of his books, requiring the boy to respond to questions as if quizzing him. At one point, he stopped, shook his head, and commented, "If you had demonstrated this level of comprehension during your classes, Potter, you would have qualified for even _my _NEWT-level Potions class. Pity you missed your seventh year. We might have made a decent potions student out of you, yet."

The boy had laughed through his pain at that, though Snape could see by his fists clenched around a handful of blanket that it cost him to do so.

"Careful, Professor. Someone might think you've gone soft," Potter said.

Some warmth threatened to burn a swift path from Snape's brain to his heart at that, for some reason, but he fought it off, saying, "Recognition of competency is merely logical, Potter. To do otherwise is to waste resources."

"Neville's competent," the boy observed after a moment.

"Longbottom…" Snape paused to consider… monitor… _edit_ what he was going to say. "Longbottom's problem was never ability but confidence. He's grown… into a rather admirable young man. The students… owe him a large debt." _As do I_, he added silently, and that warmth threatened to overwhelm him again. He fended it off by returning to their reading, tapering off as he noted Potter's fists relinquishing their stranglehold on his blankets, then relaxing fully as the boy finally drifted to sleep. Equally exhausted, Snape allowed his own eyes to close, one long finger marking their place in his book.

…oooOOOooo…

Both he and Potter slept through the night. Snape woke to Poppy bustling about both beds, waving her wand slowly over first Potter, then him, looking pleased and humming in satisfaction.

"How is he?" Snape asked, pushing himself to a sitting position with rather more strength than he'd had the day before, but wincing at a sudden stab of pain in his left wrist, where several sets of puncture wounds indicated Nagini had struck as he raised an arm to defend himself.

"His skull is completely healed, and there is no brain swelling. He'll be fine. I imagine he'll be out of bed a bit today, and able to return to the dungeons tomorrow."

"The dungeons? Isn't… why isn't he in Gryffindor tower?"

Poppy looked at him sharply. "The towers are uninhabitable, except for the north tower. Would you have him bunk with Sybill Trelawney?"

Snape stifled a snort. "I fail to see why he is _bunking_ here at all!" he said, shifting uncomfortably. "When can I get out of this blasted bed?"

"If you're feeling energetic enough to be cantankerous, you can use some of that energy to sit up in a chair today," she challenged.

"I need a shower," he complained.

She laughed. "That you do, but I'm afraid you're a day or two away from that. You have to prove to me you can maneuver on dry ground safely before I'll let you navigate wet stone."

He _humphed_ at that, then looked toward Potter's bed. "Why isn't he awake?" he asked, only then realizing how tense he was, waiting for a sign Potter was actually all right.

"Reknitting bones is hard work, Severus, as you know very well. I'll wake him in a moment." She finished whatever she was doing at the nightstand between their beds, and turned warm, smiling eyes on him, patted his arm, and said, "Your concern does you credit, Professor." He frowned in denial, but she turned toward Potter, saying, "Would you mind removing the _Immobilus_?"

For a moment, Snape thought of refusing, just to thwart her, some part of him imagining the boy begging to be let up. His bits gave an interested twitch that almost made him laugh. Instead, he reached for Potter's wand. Not finding it, he looked over at the boy. "I need his wand." Again, laughter threatened to bubble up from inside him. _Calm yourself!_ he ordered.

"Where? Oh – here it is," Poppy said, pulling the wand from where the boy clutched it, under the covers. It was warm from Potter's hand, and passing so quickly from her to Snape, retained a touch of Potter's magical signature, a warm tingling skittering through Snape's fingers and up to his wrist. _Interesting_. Snape waved the wand in a simple movement, saying, "_Finite Incantatum._" The effect was a visible softening of the boy's position on the bed – hips less rigid, neck flexing more loosely, head rolling slightly in Snape's direction.

"Potter," Pomfrey said, bending over him. "Potter, time to wake up. That's it," she said as the boy stirred and brought a hand up to rub at his eyes.

"Hey! I can move my head!" he observed, "and my hips!" He went to sit up, but Poppy held out a restraining hand.

"Not just yet, Potter. One step at a time." She took him through a series of exercises and tests before she helped him to sit up and abjured him to leave it at that, called for breakfast for the two of them, and gave them instructions to stay in bed until she returned from breakfast in the Great Hall.

No sooner had she left than Potter said, "I need to take a piss."

"Charming, Potter. I appreciate the update on the state of your plumbing."

Potter shifted uncomfortably in his bed. "I really have to use the loo," he said.

"Stop whining and control yourself, Potter. I'm sure you can…" He gave a startled oath as Potter slid his legs to the side of his bed and got shakily to his feet, one hand on the nightstand between them and the other going to his head as if to steady it.

The boy swayed before he found his footing, glanced at Snape guiltily, and muttered, "Just getting my balance back."

"Get back into bed this instant, Potter!"

The boy ignored him, grabbed his wand from the nightstand, and worked his way to the end of his bed. Snape cursed again. "Damn it, Potter! If you're going to…" He muttered something wordless, and swung his own legs to the side of his bed. "Of all the stubborn, arrogant, fools, I had to be stuck with _you_ as a roommate whilst I recover. You're going to fall, if you keep this up! If you think I'm going to let you injure yourself in front of me, you have another thing coming, Potter… Damn, that's cold!"

He winced as his feet hit the cold stone floor, and continued his muttered imprecations about Potter's ancestry, his judgment, his arrogance, and his lack of intellect, as he fought to find his own balance, and made his way as hastily as he could to the end of his own bed, where he caught up with Potter, who was eyeing the space from there to the bathroom uncertainly.

"Come on, then! If you're going to insist on setting yourself back, you are at least going to get to and from without killing yourself. The paperwork alone would be a nightmare." Snape bent to sling one of Potter's arms over one shoulder, grasping the infernal brat around the waist to assure his balance, and the two of them made their precarious way across the ward to the loo, where Potter stood, holding himself up by propping one hand on the wall over the urinal.

"Do you mind?" he asked, when Snape kept his eye on him. Snape snorted and turned away.

They made their way back to their beds the same way, Snape feeling both stronger and exhausted, and Potter clearly having exerted himself too much, to judge by the beads of perspiration on his face by the time they got back. He groaned as Snape eased him back onto his bed, and lay back, unable to do so much as get his legs onto the bed. Snape rolled his eyes, shook his head, and snatched the wand from Potter's limp hand. He uttered a levitation spell to settle Potter more securely in his bed, and then drew the covers up over the boy, refusing to let himself notice that he did so by hand, rather than waving the wand again. Then he turned to his own bed, rejected it, waved over a chair, and settled into it, after selecting a book from the pile on the nightstand. What he wouldn't give for the morning's _Prophet_!

Potter murmured, "Thank you, Professor," and his breathing slowed until he was clearly sleeping again. When Poppy returned from her breakfast and asked how they were doing, Snape felt it unnecessary to mention their little excursion.

…oooOOOooo…

Potter slept on and off throughout the morning, waking occasionally, when Poppy came over to check on him. He said little other than responding to her questions and comments. He still looked pale at the midday meal, and Snape rather peevishly asked Poppy, "What's wrong with him? Shouldn't he be better by now?" irritated rather than reassured by her patting his arm and saying, "He's fine, Severus. Head injuries just take a bit longer is all. He'll be fit as a fiddle tomorrow morning." He found himself fretting, and then was irritated by that, as well. _Stupid boy!_

Snape returned to his bed after lunch, and drifted off to sleep in the warmth of the sunlight that slanted across his blankets, warming him. He woke to the deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt conversing quietly with Pomfrey and Potter, surprised by the new Minister's tone as he talked with the boy, which was, while not pandering, certainly respectful and… Snape couldn't think of a descriptor, but qualified it by thinking that the discussion was not so much between the Minister of Magic and a schoolboy as between two equals, comrades in arms, consulting with each other.

"If you could have the Aurors and curse breakers check Grimmauld Place…"

"I'll see that it gets to the top of the list, Mr. Potter, but we're at a critical point in restoring the castle and Gringott's. Even the Ministry is on hold at the moment."

"I understand, Minister. As soon as is reasonable," the boy said, sounding resigned and… worried?

"It's Kingsley."

"Well then, you'd better call me Harry, right?" There was a mixture of humor and irritation in Potter's voice.

"Of course. Harry."

"Thanks. I really don't want all the…" Snape saw a hand wave behind Kingsley's bulk, which hid his view of the boy.

"I'll make sure everyone knows to treat you like everyone else, if that suits you."

"Yeah. Thanks." Potter sounded relieved. "Except…"

"Grimmauld Place."

"Yeah."

"Is there anything else you need?"

The boy hesitated. "Snape needs his wand back."

"As soon as is practicable."

Potter snorted. "He's not going to like that."

"It's for his protection."

"Yeah. He's not likely to see it that way."

"He won't be out of here for a while yet, will he?" Shacklebolt turned to Poppy, standing at his shoulder, but it was Potter who answered, snorting. "If I know him, he'll be out of here tomorrow." Poppy sniffed, but did not contradict the boy.

"In the meanwhile, Harry, take care of yourself. I don't want to have to explain to the wizarding world that Hogwarts killed off their hero." The man's voice changed, became softer. "And I wouldn't want to lose a friend."

That, more than anything else, shocked Snape. _A friend._ A bitter mix of longing and skepticism welled up inside him. He felt like throwing something. Preferably at Potter. And since when had Potter graduated to adulthood, to be granted _friendship_ status with someone like Shacklebolt?

_When he killed the Dark Lord. _

_Or before_, he acknowledged wryly. He shifted in his bed, alerting the others that he was awake.

"Severus!" Kingsley said, turning to him. He took Snape's hand without hesitation and shook it warmly, his other hand on Snape's shoulder. "You're back with us."

"Shacklebolt."

"Kingsley."

Snape hesitated, then nodded. "I understand you are our new Minister."

Kingsley had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. "I'm afraid I have that dubious honor."

Snape hesitated again. "Had I been awake to voice my opinion, I would have cast my vote for you." It was as close to complimenting anyone as he had ever come, and it made him incredibly uncomfortable. Fortunately, Kingsley limited himself to squeezing his shoulder once, and then dropped his hand.

"When you're able, Severus, we'll need your testimony to tie up loose ends."

Snape stiffened.

"You've been exonerated, of course," Kingsley went on smoothly, as if he hadn't noted. "But you have critical information that would help with the disposition of certain other cases." He hesitated. "I wouldn't press you to testify, Snape, but without your eye-witness account, some people will walk free who should be locked up." He leaned in and lowered his voice. "I want to be sure Potter is safe, for one thing. As well as the rest of the Order."

Snape nodded curtly. "Of course, Minister. You have only to order it."

"I'd rather you come forward of your own accord, Severus. We _need _you to do so," he said. "It would go a long way to clear up any lingering public perception of you as Voldemort's right hand man."

Snape winced at that, and felt sick. "I doubt anything will expunge that impression from the public mind, Minister."

Shacklebolt cocked his head and studied him a moment. "I think you'll find yourself pleasantly surprised," he said, and glanced just once at Potter, who was watching interestedly, not even pretending not to listen. Snape glared at him, but Potter did not turn away.

"As soon as I am able, then, Minister."

"Kingsley."

"Kingsley." Snape nodded.

"Is there anything you need in the meantime, Severus? We're a bit stretched at the moment, but I'll do my best to see that your needs are met."

Snape shook his head. _Since when did his needs merit consideration? _"Nothing. Other than my wand."

Kingsley smiled. "That'll be back in your hands within the week, Severus. I'll see to it personally."

"Is there a reason it is being withheld?"

"Evidence. However, I promise you, you'll have it back before the week is up."

Snape nodded reluctantly, and wondered if anyone knew of the other wands he had accumulated over the years… though none so responsive in his hand as his beloved ebony and dragon heartstring. He'd clung to that combination as if it was a lifeline… which it had been – Dragon heartstring for courage, ebony to protect against poisons – a critical protection for any potions master, but doubly so for someone in the Dark Lord's circle. And a powerful combination, in its own right. He felt naked without it in his hands, as if he had forgotten to completely dress… was missing his socks or his pants. "As soon as possible. Please," he added.

Kingsley nodded. "I'll be off, then. Let me know when you are well enough to testify before the Wizengamot," he said, with a grimace. "Unfortunately, it will be the entirety of the Wizengamot, so be sure you have the stamina to put up with that. It's barely tolerable for those of us who are not injured." With a small smile at that, he turned, bid goodbye to Potter and Poppy, and strode from the infirmary, leaving Snape to ponder the trials ahead.

…oooOOOooo…

Potter left the infirmary the following morning, with firm instructions to merely rest for the remainder of the week, leaving Snape fretting and disgruntled by his own continued… incarceration. Poppy kept him busy with a series of exercises designed to loosen stiff muscles and return him to balance. He struggled to keep from barking at her angrily when she pushed him, and to quell tears that threatened to overwhelm him at his apparent physical weakness. He had to repeatedly invoke the calming ritual he used before meetings with the Dark Lord, and that kept triggering spasms of memory, remorse, and fear. _Merlin! He was as uncontrolled as… as Potter! Damned Gryffindor! Where was his Slytherin calm?_ He kept reaching for it, but it was as elusive as a unicorn faced with a grown man.

_When had Potter become a man? _

In the past year. Or… before, maybe, chasing down bits of the Dark Lord's soul with Dumbledore… or after his godfather's death in the Ministry… Guilt and shame made him weak, and Poppy glanced at him sharply.

"Enough for now, Severus?"

"No!" he said through gritted teeth, and continued his halting walk, pacing the infirmary from her office to the doors, Poppy hovering annoyingly, lest his legs give out. Exhausted, he fell asleep before afternoon tea, only wakening when Poppy insisted he take in sustenance, wondering where Potter was and whether he was resting, as ordered. _Of course not. Idiotic boy… man._

Exercise alternated with exhausted sleep for the next two days. Potter was conspicuous by his absence, and Snape found himself strangely irritated by that. Faculty members began visiting him, watched by Poppy's sharp eyes, lest they upset or tire him unduly. Hagrid's visit was a trial, but Snape tolerated it for a full twelve minutes before abruptly ordering the half-giant out so he could get some rest. Flitwick was soothing. McGonagall brisk and businesslike, which he appreciated, asking for his input on various details of castle reconstruction and planning for the upcoming academic year. He was heartbreakingly relieved to hear that the school would re-open. He didn't think he could stand the loss, if it didn't.

"You'll teach Potions, of course, won't you?" McGonagall asked the second day. "I know you want the Defense position, Severus, but I can't, in good conscience, waste a Potion Master's knowledge that way."

He was relieved, if he was honest with himself. Defense would dredge up too many memories… "As long as you find someone competent to teach Defense, Minerva." She hummed uninformatively. "You _do_ realize it's still needed."

"Naturally."

"Ask someone from the Order?"

She hummed again, and said, "I'm looking at the candidates… perhaps you can help me evaluate them when you're better."

"I _am_ better," he said peevishly.

"Soon, then," she said with a warm smile.

…oooOOOooo…

He badgered Poppy about letting him go, but she was adamant he be able to navigate without the need for someone to hover over him to be sure he didn't fall. He was _not _about to accept the cane she tried to thrust into his hand, and worked himself mercilessly to retain his balance until she pointed out that exhausting himself was going to result in diminishing returns. _Where the hell was Potter?_ He was irked at the thought of Potter gallivanting around the castle while he was stuck here, in the infirmary, with that incessantly babbling healer. He stopped himself and acknowledged that he was being unduly harsh. _I just need to get out of here!_

It was a triumph when, on Thursday evening, Poppy grudgingly allowed that he was ready _enough_ to leave in the morning, provided he eat a decent supper and breakfast, and manage a bath on his own. It sounded _heavenly_. He was simply over-tired of people intruding in his personal space, touching him, _helping_ him! A bath… alone… dressing on his own… walking down the stairs of the castle – _alone_. His life had been reduced to such simple pleasures. _Where's my damned wand?_


	10. Chapter 10

The usual disclaimer applies.

* * *

**Never Done  
**  
Chapter 10

Snape made his slow, uncertain way down the stone stairway from the now-empty infirmary, having badgered Poppy into finally – _finally _– releasing him, with the provisos that, first of all, he report daily for a check-up immediately after supper, and second, that he allow Potter's continued assistance. The infernal brat had apparently consented to this. The fact that Poppy had asked Snape, in private, to keep an eye on the boy was literally the only reason he had acquiesced to this condition.

"Why can he not stay with the Weasleys?" he had protested. Pomfrey had been at a loss to explain that away, and he had a moment of triumph before Minerva – blast the woman! – cut in with, "Molly and Arthur have enough to be getting on with, without adding Harry to their burdens right now. Besides, he'd have to floo to St. Mungo's for checkups, and that would not be wise. Furthermore, Severus, he's safer here until Kingsley and the Aurors round up the rest of Voldemort's followers.

That last had been the telling blow to Snape's protests, though he wanted to argue that, as Potter managed to evade Voldemort, his Death Eaters, the snatchers, and the bloody rest of the bloody wizarding world for the past year, he could bloody well evade the rest of the Death Eaters… depending on who was left, of course… and provided his head and skull agreed to cooperate… and he didn't have to use too much magic before he was completely healed… At which point, his argument collapsed in on itself, leaving him no choice but to admit that the boy needed to stay _here _for the time being.

The banister was gritty under his palm, and dust crunched underfoot, making the stairs hazardous. _I should have waited_, he acknowledged. Perhaps he was not quite as ready to navigate a ruined castle as he'd have been to make his way through the castle under normal circumstances. He watched his feet rather more than his surroundings, but the dust and grit permeated everything, and the sun coming through the high windows cast a light that glittered against and was lost among a haze in the air. Here and there, he had to step around bits of broken flagstone, and in the periphery of his vision, he noted damage to the walls and ceiling. _No wonder Potter had gotten injured! Fool boy!_

By the time he reached the first floor and the entrance hall, he was overwhelmed and shaken by the destruction around him, aware that it must have been so much worse, three months past. _Gods! Had _anything _been left intact and undamaged? Surely – _surely _– people had lost lives here… and here… and here… _A fading brown stain on the stone at the bottom of the staircase caught his eye, and he fought not to vomit, a hand going to his mouth, stifling a sob that tore from his chest. _I can't do this!_

"Severus! I didn't know you were up and about!" Flitwick's warm voice spun Snape about, away from the stain that had frozen him in place.

"Filius!"

To Snape's relief, the man did not comment on the tears he dashed from his eyes, either missing them, or too polite to comment.

"You shouldn't be wandering alone, Severus – not your first trip out. The castle is coming along, but spots are hazardous, if you haven't got your footing." Snape opened his mouth to protest, but Flitwick continued. "Potter came up to the Hall on his own, too. Minerva just finished blistering his ears about that. You _are _coming to lunch?" He continued, pulling Snape along at his side by force of conversation.

"We just finished the doors yesterday," he said, gesturing to the main entrance. "The Great Hall is nearly done, as well, but I think we'll have to delay the start of term, though that's not for me to say. I believe Minerva was getting ready to make a decision about that this week. It'll be easier, now you're up and about."

"Why is that?" Snape asked as they approached the Great Hall.

"We need your help with the wards, of course."

Snape would have commented, but just then, the doors to the Great Hall opened, anticipating them, and he stopped, stunned.

It was… perfect. Everything was perfect. The walls were pristine, their architectural detail in shockingly clear relief in the suddenly-clear air. The flagstone shone as if newly waxed, and four long rows of House tables gleamed in the sunlight that streamed through crystal windows, rainbows of red, yellow, green, and blue refracted through the glass in a prism effect, laying bands of color across all four tables and the floor between them.

Witches and wizards in the navy blue of the Department of Magical Maintenance of the Ministry of Magic, interspersed here and there with other specialties, sat at the Gryffindor table. A group of faculty and staff… and one mussed black head… sat at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, oddly enough. Heads turned toward the door, and there were gasps and calls of, "Severus!" "Snape!" and "Blimey!" Snape glanced at Flitwick and swallowed at his smile and encouraging nod, finally moving his feet only when the man gave him a push.

He felt the eyes of everyone on him as he entered the Hall. The walk to where the faculty sat seemed to take forever, and his throat kept spasming shut. He cursed the tears that came to his eyes, and would have turned and fled, were it not for Flitwick's hand at his back. Several of the faculty stood as he drew near, stepping over their benches to come up to him and pat his arm or shake his hand. If they said anything, which he assumed they had, he could not hear it through the rushing in his ears.

"Sit here, Professor," someone said, and a wand was waved, banishing a portion of the bench, replacing it with an armed chair, which the person pulled out for him, their hand going to his shoulder and guiding him to sit. The chair slid soundlessly closer to the table, as his hands gripped the arms. The hand never left his shoulder until a cup of tea was pressed into one of his hands. He looked down to see hands adding honey and a spot of milk, looked up and to his right to see that it was Potter who had seated him, and felt something shockingly like… gratitude… and safety. He stirred himself to sip at the tea, and to look around him, unaware of his wide eyes, at faces that were warm, inviting, caring… retreating into his tea to soothe the lump from his throat and unconsciously leaning closer to Potter, as if to anchor himself.

The boy and Minerva diverted attention from him. "You were saying, Headmistress?"

"Yes – as I was saying, Ravenclaw Tower is ready for habitation, and Hufflepuff will be ready for students within the week, though it is still housing the workers. The kitchens are unharmed, but as you know, our elves are working themselves to a frazzle over the condition of the castle, so I'm not sure it is feasible to ask them to be ready to feed the student body by September first. Gryffindor Tower sustained the worst damage, as you know, and work on repairs there has only begun. It'll be a month, at least, before those rooms are ready. Slytherin…" She hesitated. "The primary issue with the dungeons is the number of curses and traps that were laid there, some of which appear to be inherent in the castle's own magic. Distinguishing which belong and which need to be broken has not been easy, even with curse-breakers with a history of that House affiliation. Severus, perhaps you could advise them?"

Startled at being directly addressed, Snape fought to replay the conversation to figure out what he'd just been asked. A hand pressed his arm with reassuring pressure, and Potter leaned in. "I'm sure Sev— Professor Snape and I could take a look, Headmistress. Is tomorrow soon enough?"

Minerva looked relieved at that. "Thank you, Potter. That would be perfect."

"It would give you a chance to stretch your legs, Professor," the boy said.

Despite the tactic – which he appreciated as quite… Slytherin – Snape was irritated. "I'll thank you not to choose commitments for me, Potter. I'm sure there'll be plenty to occupy me and to provide… therapeutic exercise… in setting up my quarters." He did not miss the look Minerva, that old cat, threw Potter, or the guilty flush that appeared on his face. _No matter. He would know within the hour what that was about_.

The midday meal passed in a haze of conversation that swirled around Snape like motes of dust caught in a whirlwind, and he repeatedly found himself shaking his head to clear it, and to fight off panic or tears that made swallowing difficult. He barely noted Potter at this side, dishing small portions onto his plate, refilling his tea, and encouraging him, "Try some of this, Professor. It's really good," or "Have some more tea, Professor?" or "Here, let me get that for you."

Eventually, the noise, the smells of food, and Potter's constant nattering got to him, and he murmured, "Pardon me," and scraped back his chair, intending to leave quietly. At his movement, all conversation at the table stopped.

"All righ', there, Perf'sser?" Hagrid asked from the end of the table.

"Fine. I'm… I'll be in my quarters." He missed the look of alarm that flashed across Potter's face, and the reassuring nod McGonagall gave the boy. Potter stood, hesitated a moment, and said, "I'm done, as well. I… I should probably rest…"

Madam Pomfrey sniffed and nodded. "I'll see you both following supper – do _not _forget or I'll have you both confined to the infirmary faster than you can say _Quidditch_!"

Snape nodded at her, ran his glance across those at the table, and turned hastily, before his eyes could betray him again. When he moved to walk out of the Great Hall, Potter paced silently at his side, taking an extra step every so often to match Snape's long stride.

When Potter did not turn toward Gryffindor Tower, but continued to accompany him to the stairs leading to the tunnel to the dungeons, Snape stopped. "Where do you think you're going, Potter?"

"I… I thought I'd make sure you got to your room alright."

"I have lived in this castle for more than twenty years of my life, Potter. I hardly think…"

"Just… just let me…"

"Where are your rooms?"

"Ah… Gryffindor Tower is uninhabitable, remember?"

He'd forgotten… or hadn't really paid attention.

"_Where are you staying_, Potter?" Snape said, his voice sharp with suspicion.

"Ah… I've been staying in the dungeons."

"What the bloody hell is a Gryffindor doing in my dungeons?"

"It's not like I haven't been there before!" Potter shot back, and then blanched, taking a step back as if he expected to be hexed… or grabbed.

Snape followed his retreat, taking one long step toward the boy, and grabbed him by the shirt, twisting it to pull the boy nearer. "_What. Were you doing. In my dungeons, Potter_?" he growled dangerously.

Potter grabbed at his hands, trying to wrest them free of his collar. "Second year! I… I was trying to see if Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin. Ron… Ron and I snuck into the Slytherin common room…"

"_Polyjuiced!_" Snape snarled. "You _lied _to me, Potter! You said you never stole from my potions closet!"

"I never did! It was Hermione! I told you!"

Snape shoved the boy away. "A technicality, Potter. You are nonetheless guilty!"

Potter rubbed at his neck, glared at him resentfully, and then shrugged. "Yeah. I know."

Snape was taken aback by the admission. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your theft, Potter. Another ten for lying. And five points _to _Gryffindor for acknowledging your fault."

The boy shook his head. "Too late, Professor. I'm not a student anymore, remember? And anyway -" He gestured to the place where the huge tally of House points usually hung from the wall. "Point system's broken for now," he pointed out.

Snape glanced at him, then turned toward the stairs again, ruing the fact that he was dressed only in trousers and a shirt, lamenting the ability to express his irritation by whirling in his robes. Potter scrambled after him.

They made their way, without talking, through the tunnel that led under the Black Lake, its green hue seen through thick panes of glass, coloring the walls in an eerie, ever-changing play of light and shadow, the sun filtering in interrupted by waving grasses and the passage of the lake's denizens, dimly seen in the murk. Potter caught up with him and walked at his side as if he knew the way.

"If the dungeons are hexed and traps are laid, how is it you're staying down here? I would think Ravenclaw…"

"Ravenclaw is only now habitable, Professor. Everything above ground was damaged."

"Hufflepuff…"

"Hufflepuff is where the workers have been staying."

"And the Chosen One is too good to live with the rabble?" Snape sneered.

The boy inhaled sharply, and Snape looked at him, satisfied to see that he'd gotten to the boy, to judge by his clenched jaw. After a moment, to his surprise, Potter mastered himself and said, "McGonagall and the Ministry felt it would be safer for me to… to sleep away from the workers. They can't do security screening on everyone, and there… there have been… threats." He mumbled the last, and Snape felt a flash of alarm, but did not give voice to it. After a moment, Potter said, "And…"

"Yes?"

"And I have nightmares… sometimes. Wouldn't want to… to… to bother anyone…"

The flash of alarm spiked. "What kind of nightmares? Of the Dark Lord? Does Minerva know? Kingsley? Have you told anyone? Is this connected to the nightmares you had fifth year?" The questions tumbled out of him uncensored, just a brain-to-mouth connection he felt helpless to interrupt. He finally managed to get control, clamping his lips shut by virtue of folding his arms tightly across his chest, and digging fingers into his biceps. His left wrist ached, distracting him further.

Potter looked at him in shock.

"Stop gaping, and answer the question!"

"No. Not like that. Not… it's not connected to my scar." The boy brushed his forehead. "It's not Voldemort, Professor. He's dead. I promise. He's gone."

"Then what -?"

"Look, could we not talk about this right now?" Potter turned back to the corridor and stalked off, deeper into the dungeons. Snape narrowed his eyes at the retreating figure, then followed, his long legs eating up the distance between them.

Potter stopped at the door to Snape's former quarters, placed a hand on the door, and muttered something too low for Snape to hear. The door swung silently inward, but rather than entering, Potter stood back, allowing Snape to sweep in ahead of him, glaring at the boy as he brushed past….

To stop just inside the door.

He did not know what he was expecting. Boxes, maybe. Remnants of Slughorn's appalling taste in furnishings… dank from disuse, dirty, dark, damp… at the least. His own things dumped unceremoniously in his former quarters, awaiting his presence… or ready for disposal, in case he did not survive… or awaiting his move, in the event he did not stay.

He was _not _expecting… warmth… soft lighting… his things arranged as he'd had them when he was Head of Slytherin… He did not expect dry comfort… lighter versions of Slytherin House colors. He did not expect gleaming surfaces that reflected light that banished darkness in even the deepest corners, yet felt comforting, rather than harsh, welcoming rather than intrusive. He did not expect warm woven rugs between his sofa and chairs in front of the fireplace… years of accumulated antique potions equipment, gleaming and carefully arranged with like kind on shelves and tables and… and his desk… right where he liked it… and fresh quills and parchment and ink…

Stunned, he walked slowly into the room, his fingers trailing on tables and sofa, along walls and bookshelves partially filled with familiar tomes. At the sound of shuffling at the door, he turned to see Potter watching him warily.

"How?"

"I needed something to do while I waited for you…" Potter reddened. "Waited for you and… and everyone… to get better. McGonagall… sent down your things…"

"And how is it, Potter, that you gained access to my quarters?"

"They weren't your quarters when I… when we started – they were Slughorn's. He released his ward for McGonagall before he left."

"The Headmistress gave you access?" Snape was confused, felt himself becoming angry. _Why on earth would McGonagall give Potter access to Snape's things? _"Why?"

"I didn't exactly ask. Permission, I mean. I just came here, and… and the… the… the room let me in."

"It… just… _let_ you."

"Yeah. So…" Potter moved into the room, and trailed fingers across the back of the sofa, much as Snape had.

"What were you doing down here?" Snape demanded.

"Looking for a place to stay."

"Looking for –" Snape stared at the boy, his mind working rapidly. Then he spun around, took three steps, and slammed open the door to his bedroom.

Part of his mind took inventory – his beloved ebony bed, its headboard and newel posts embedded with protective charms and spells, his wardrobe that usually held his robes – probably empty, now, unless those, too, had been unpacked without his consent.

A pair of denims lay across the foot of the bed. _Denims!_ _The boy had... Potter had been in his bedroom. _Using _his bedroom... using his bed, his linens, his things. _No one - no one in twenty years other than house elves - had been in his private sanctuary, his safe haven, the only place where the demands and horror of the reality of his life was not allowed to intrude. His safe space had been violated. He drew back, his stomach clenching in fear, as if he'd been _personally_ violated, whirled, and took three long steps that brought him towering over Potter, who held his ground, pale but firm, looking up at him with still, calm eyes, though a flicker of fear was visible in their depths.

"Get. Out. Potter," Snape spat, enunciating each word with barely-contained rage. Potter just looked at him. "I said _get out_. Get out – _now! Get out I said!_"

He raised his hand as if it held his wand and pointed at the door, and the rage in him poured forth in one hot blast, that propelled Potter backwards until his back slammed against the door, banging his head against it, knocking the breath out of the boy. Without turning, Potter reached behind him for the doorknob, his eyes never leaving Snape's wild-eyed, irate face, pulled the door open, and paused. Rather than frightened, he looked worried… or pitying. Snape could not stand that. Potter opened his mouth to say something – something Snape no doubt did _not _want to hear.

_"OUT!" _he shouted, and slashed his wrists across each other, palms outward, pushing the boy out with wandless magic fueled by anger and fear, slamming the door shut after Potter. He flung his arms outward, and a tight, enraged burst of energy sent books flying and fanned the flames in the fireplace, making them leap and cast ominous shadows across his face.


	11. Chapter 11

The usual disclaimers - Jo Rowling's characters and world, my plot, just for fun. Also, I'd be remiss if I did not thank my friend Jill for her eagle eye on this and several other chapters, catching my typos. Thanks, Jill!

* * *

**Never Done**

Chapter 11

Harry stopped just outside the door Snape slammed in his face. He raised a hand to the dark surface, feeling the ward's welcome as a prickle across his palm, moved forward until he leaned on the door next to his hand. It was cool against the scar on his forehead, and he nearly kissed the door in gratitude. Instead, still leaning against it, he turned and slid down to the floor, adrenaline from his confrontation with Snape leaching from his system as his body reacted to the end of the crisis, leaving him shaken and drained. Elbows on his knees, throbbing head in his hands, he sat without thought for a while before his brain kicked into gear again.

He'd have to find a place to stay – Ravenclaw, he assumed. _What were you expecting? That he'd let you kip on his sofa? He should ask McGonagall. Only… would she say that, since Snape was out of the infirmary, it was high time Harry left Hogwarts?_ He shifted uncomfortably at that. He had no desire to leave. Unbidden, he had an image of himself skulking around the castle at the age of thirty-five, slipping from shadow to shadow, unwilling to leave, unable to openly stay, haunting the place like some strangely corporeal ghost. He supposed he could take up residence in the Chamber of Secrets. The thought of haunting the school from Myrtle's bathroom, the cold, wet stink of the Chamber, with the basilisk's body decaying slowly over the years, caused him to shiver, and then he laughed in what he knew would become hysterical tears if he didn't control himself.

_Or… he could go further down the Slytherin corridor to the Common Room and dorm… that was probably better. _He wondered if the house elves would tell the Headmistress he was using those rooms… wondered if they'd bring him his things… because he could _not _go back into Snape's quarters to retrieve them himself – that much was clear. He wondered if Snape would banish or _Incendio_ the lot, in his anger, and had a moment's pang for his schoolbag and the Marauder's Map tucked into its front pocket… and a stronger sadness at the thought that the book of pictures of his parents that Hagrid had given him his first year might be a casualty of Snape's ire. _Unless he looked first. _Then he'd probably keep all the pictures of Harry's mum, his beloved Lily, and _Incendio_ every trace of James and Harry Potter.

He sighed. First, he had to get up off this floor. He got stiffly to his feet, wincing as he worked the chill and cramps out of his back and bottom, and looked right and left. _Up? Or further down?_ Not wanting to see anyone just then, he chose right – further down – and set off, a hand trailing along the stone walls, catching the tingle of the castle's magic in his fingertips as he went.

He felt like this. Like he was connected to the castle's life blood, somehow. He'd first been aware of it as he fought Voldemort in the Great Hall – a presence at his back, surrounding him, something _more _added to his magic, a depth not available to him before. He thought it was the magic that had called him back, after he'd so nearly died… or had he actually died? He hadn't worked that out yet, too busy watching friends in the infirmary, to busy with funerals and answering the Ministry's summons, too busy worrying about Snape.

Well, there was nothing to worry about on that account. Snape was definitely back… definitely a survivor, definitely retained enough memory to recall that he hated Harry, definitely retained his magic. And he had no use for Harry, that was clear. Harry tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach at that.

A pulse of magic pulled him out of his musings as he passed through… a _thick _spot in the air in the corridor. Something flashed at the edges of his vision, and without thinking, he raised his hand and snatched it out of the air, his Seeker reflexes catching the glint of it in time. Without pausing, he continued, and looked down, only partly surprised to see the silver potions-preparation knife in his hand.

Traps and hexes, McGonagall had said. He stopped and looked back at the space he had just pushed through, and squinted as if he'd be able to see the thickened air, but he saw nothing. He considered the corridor around and ahead of him, looked at the knife once more, and turned back down the corridor, still tracing the walls with his hand.

Nothing else impeded his progress, though several times, he thought he saw the shimmer of some half-formed spell dissipate as he neared it. Finally, he reached the door to the Slytherin common room.

_Password_, he thought, and laid his hand against the door. "Half-Blood Prince," he murmured, and the castle adjusted and adapted around him, setting that as the password as it had Snape's quarters. Harry pressed his hand to the door in gratitude, and felt the castle respond.

He hadn't had time to think about this – about what it meant. He supposed it meant he was bound to the castle, somehow, now that he'd given his life to defend her and her people. _Home_, he thought, and the castle breathed around him.

The door to the Slytherin common room opened, and Harry stepped through cautiously. It was dark, and cold, and felt empty. He took out his wand, chiding himself for not having done so earlier, and muttered, "_Lumos maxima!_" raising his wand to look around. "_Incendio_," ne murmured, and torches set in sconces around the walls lit, dispelling the darkness, though not enough to be truly comforting. Harry considered a moment, then whispered, "Kreacher?"

There was a crack, and Kreacher appeared, squeaking in alarm when he saw where they were. "Master Harry Potter, sir!" he said, his eyes wide. "What are you doing in the House of Slytherin?"

"You must know this place, Kreacher. Regulus called you here, sometimes, didn't he?"

The elf nodded, his ears flapping, and wrung his hands.

"Kreacher…" Harry kept his voice low and reassuring. "It's alright. Nothing here can hurt you. No one is here but us." Actually, Harry was not completely sure of either of those statements, but that was exactly why he needed Kreacher.

"I'm going to be staying here a while, Kreacher, only… could you help me… just… check it out and make sure… ah… just make sure there aren't any rats or… you know… _things_… about? I don't fancy being gnawed on in my sleep."

Kreacher looked appalled. "Rats are _not _to gnaw on Harry Potter!" he said, his ears trembling in indignation.

"Er – right, then," Harry said. "So – would you mind helping me check?"

"Kreacher could fetch Mrs. Norris…"

"No! No – uh… I'm sure she's got enough to do, keeping track of the Maintenance workers for Filch. Uh… let's just the two of us… do you mind? I've had enough of cats for a lifetime."

"Of course, Master."

Harry winced. "Kreacher, I've asked you to call me Harry. Just Harry. Could you…"

"Of course, Master Harry," the elf said, and Harry sighed. "Alright, then." He rubbed his hands on his jeans. "So – rat hunting. Should we begin here, or go to the dorms?"

"Whatever you wish, Master Harry," Kreacher said. Harry was certain he was doing that deliberately – making Harry make the decisions, give the orders. He supposed the elf felt more comfortable with that than with making choices himself, but couldn't help wishing Hermione was here to help him phrase things right. "Ok. Let's start at the back and work our way forward."

"As you wish, Master."

Harry threw up his hands and gave up. He'd face Hermione's disgust later, but he simply did not have the energy for this right now. He walked to a desk against one wall, where he laid the silver knife he had snatched out of the air, and led the way to the furthest of the Slytherin dorm rooms. Unlike Gryffindor House, the Slytherins changed dorms each year. The first years were furthest from the common room; seventh years, closest. This assured that first years had the most supervision on their way to and from the common room and the door to the corridor, but Harry couldn't help thinking it would be rather intimidating to walk to the furthest reaches of the dungeon.

He expected it to get darker and dingier as he moved further in, braver now that he had Kreacher to cover his back, but he was surprised to find that the reverse was true – the rooms furthest from the common room were lighter, and he realized they were both nearer the surface of the cliff-side into which Hogwarts was built, and furthest toward the outside of the castle. The benefit was greater light and airier rooms. The drawback seemed to be that they were slightly more damp, but Kreacher waved his wand, already lighting a fire in the fireplace, and dispelling the musty, unused smell that had accumulated since the Slytherins had left for home. There were no mattresses – sensible, given the damp that would accumulate over the summer.

Harry and Kreacher investigated the quarters, found them inhabited only by a few spiders, and without any traps or hexes that either of them could tell. Leaving the fire to burn away the chill and damp, they proceeded to investigate each of the dorms, second through seventh. It wasn't until they reached the sixth year dorm that they found any jinxes, and those were minor – of the sort the outgoing sixth years might have left for the incoming group: itching powder, exploding snaps, and – giving Harry a moment of panic – Peruvian instant darkness powder, set in a small cauldron atop the door to one room so that it would fall onto the first person to enter. Kreacher dispelled the cloud of darkness almost before Harry's alarmed cry left his mouth.

"Nasty sixth years," the elf said, but Harry thought he caught a twinkle in the elf's eyes, making him wonder if Regulus Black had set the same trap when he'd gone to school here.

The seventh year dorm was surprisingly free of traps, hexes and jinxes, and Harry worked out that first through fourth years may have been too well-watched by their Housemates to misbehave, fifth years too focused on OWLs, and seventh years too focused on NEWTs and careers to bother, leaving the sixth years to misbehave on their own. No wonder Malfoy got away with so much, their sixth year – no one was watching! _No one but me… and Snape._

_Draco slept here_, he thought, taking one last look at the seventh year dorm. Of course, so had Crabbe and Goyle… He stifled a shudder at that. But then again… so had Regulus. He glanced at Kreacher, conscious of the fake locket bouncing against his chest as they moved on to inspect the common room.

The common room was clear of hexes, but some complex spells held some things in place on shelves, and neither he nor Kreacher could see how to move them. They seemed harmless enough – a portrait of Salizar Slytherin, who watched but said nothing as they worked; a plate with two sculpted, entwined snakes that did not respond when Harry hissed at them in Parseltongue, despite their tails twitching; a small silver matchbox. Finally, Kreacher declared the rooms "rat-free", and offered to set the fire in the common room. Harry nodded distractedly.

"Kreacher… what about this?" he asked, approaching a chest set along one wall.

Kreacher eyed the chest and then Harry. "Master Harry will need his wand," he said in an odd voice.

"Why? What's in it?"

"Only Master Harry will know."

_Well, that was confusing! _"Something only I will know?" _Boggart._ It had to be a boggart, didn't it? He looked at Kreacher, who had backed away. "Are you frightened of boggarts, Kreacher? But you know they're not real, right?"

Kreacher just shook his head, his eyes fixed on the chest.

"Kreacher, do you want me to wait? I can take care of it later. You don't have to be here."

"Kreacher must be here to protect Master, even if it hurts Kreacher… even if he dies!"

Harry almost laughed. "Boggarts don't _kill _people! They only scare you half to – Oh." He eyed Kreacher, wondering what it was that would frighten the elf so. It didn't matter. He should order Kreacher to leave… he should. But the thought of sleeping in Slytherin quarters was unsettling enough on its own, without a boggart nearby. The thought nearly made him ill. He had to banish it, not just contain it.

"Get behind me, Kreacher," he ordered, gesturing abruptly when the elf hesitated to obey. Harry gestured again, and the elf moved to stand behind him, one hand raised toward either the chest or Harry himself. Harry took a deep breath and waved his wand. The lid to the trunk opened, and a black shape rose from within it, looking around. It ignored Harry, though, and focused on the elf peeking out from behind him, swooped down on poor Kreacher… and transformed.

_Inferi… a lake in a dark cavern… a sickly-green glow coming from a basin… Kreacher, a locket clutched in his hand, watching his beloved Regulus dragged below the surface of the lake by the dead and undead that Voldemort had placed there to protect one seventh of his soul…_

Harry watched in horrified fascination until a thin, shaking hand clutched at his belt and pulled at his sleeve. He looked down into Kreacher's stricken, terrified face, and whirled to face the boggart, throwing his arms wide in a protective gesture, as he'd seen Lupin do, his third year, during a Defense lesson on boggarts. The boggart tried to keep its focus on Kreacher, but Harry planted himself directly in front of its face - in front of Regulus' frightened, painful face… and looked into his… _its_… eyes, _forcing_ it to change…

To a series of images that flickered almost too fast to follow – Dumbledore falling… Cedric falling… Voldemort falling… Dobby falling… Fred falling… and Snape falling, Snape laying, bloodied and torn, in the Shrieking Shack… but the knowledge of Snape's survival burst forth within him, and he raised his wand, shouting, "_Riddikulus!_" followed by, "_Evanesco!_" and the Snape-boggart first turned back to boggart, and then vanished in a burst of dust that, mote by more, twinkled out of existence.

Sounds of distress came from waist level, and Harry turned to find Kreacher sobbing, grasping at the towel he was dressed in, using it to wipe his nose and his eyes. Harry immediately dropped his wand, dropped to his knees, and drew Kreacher into an insistent hug. "You will allow me to hug you, Kreacher! I order you!" he said, as the elf stiffened. Kreacher collapsed in limp relief at that, clutching at Harry's robes and sobbing himself out of tears.

"It's alright, Kreacher. It's all right. I've got you. We both lived you know – all three of us – you and me and Snape… and we avenged them, didn't we? Have I told you how proud I am of you? I know Reg… Regulus would be proud of you, too." He held the elf away from him, then, and said, "Thank you for staying here with me for that. I think I can sleep here tonight, now. I want you to go have a cup of tea in the kitchen and change your towel. And then I want you to come back here and bring me a snack. Alright?"

The elf hiccupped and nodded, finally croaking out, "Of course, Master. Kreacher won't be but a few minutes."

"Take your time," Harry said, but he spoke to thin air, as Kreacher popped out with a resounding _Crack!_ that was far too near Harry's ears for comfort. He shook his head and stuck fingers in his ears to clear the ringing, groaning a little at the pounding in his head, either from the effort of using magic, or from the displacement of air caused by the elf's disapparition. _Maybe I can get Kreacher to bring me a head ache potion_, he thought, but then realized he'd never seen an elf deliver potions to anyone – except gillyweed, of course. _Dobby. _His heart echoed with that loss. He sighed, got to his feet long enough to sink onto the sofa he and Ron had sat on, second year, trying to determine if Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin.

_Merlin, life was strange! _He wondered, fleetingly, what Dudley was doing this summer… what life would be like on Privet Drive… what it would have been like, if Hagrid hadn't shown up at midnight on his eleventh birthday, telling him he was a wizard. Just for a moment, he felt thoroughly disoriented. _A wizard! Magic is real. He _used _magic… Dumbledore, Fred and George, McGonagall, Malfoy, Lupin, Dementors, Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, Stan Shunpike and the Night Bus, dragons, and goblins, and house elves, oh my! _his mind sang, and he wondered, for a moment, if he'd fallen down a rabbit hole, and ended up here, in this alternate reality. _Wouldn't it be just bloody _awful_ to wake up in his cupboard to find it was all a dream?_

And it hit him that, with all the loss and death and injury and pain and fear and horror, he _loved _this life – loved magic, loved being a wizard, loved every bit of it, loved Ron and Hermione and every single Weasley – even Percy… and Hagrid and the thestrals and McGonagall and … _everyone_… even Snape. And that realization filled him, chased away the shadows cast by the boggart, and left him… at peace, a smile playing about his lips, and his eyes shining with it, had anyone been there to see.

Kreacher interrupted his musings, popping back in with a tray of tea and something savory that turned out to be stew, which Harry devoured with relish.

"Kreacher, I need to get my things out of Snape's quarters, now that he's back. Do you think you could get them for me?"

Kreacher gave him a sly look that he missed. "Kreacher is not entering professors' quarters without being summoned by the professors," he said, and Harry sighed. He'd suspected as much.

"Could you let me know when he's gone, then – when he's not in his rooms? I don't want to disturb him." He hoped he could fetch his things before Snape lost patience and _Incendio'ed _them.

"Of course, Master Harry. Will there be anything else?"

"No. Thank you for the stew. It was delicious."

Kreacher bowed and popped out of the room.

Harry cast a _Tempus._ Four thirty. He had hours, yet, before supper, and no Snape to visit in the infirmary, no potions books to read… He couldn't just _sit _here, and he was too wound up to take a nap. His fingers itched for his journal, and again he had a moment's panic that Snape would read through the unfamiliar leather tome on his nightstand. _Of course, he would!_ Though, Harry hadn't written anything there about his revelation about his feelings for the man. _Thank Merlin! _Only… did he still feel that way, or was it all fantasy, enabled by Snape's silence as he lay unconscious? Did those feelings apply to the waking, snarky, _real_ Snape – the one who had thrown Harry out of his quarters?

He recalled the look on Snape's face – furious, frightened – and had the urge to put his arms around the thin shoulders in reassurance. "It's alright, Professor," he murmured. "It'll be alright. You'll see." He shook himself at that, and eyed Salizar Slytherin's portrait. Salizar was studying his fingernails in feigned indifference.

_Right. No talking to myself, _Harry thought, and, feeling again the lack of his journal, began sorting through things on desks and shelves. He found some parchment – damp, and some ink – dry, and waved a drying spell on the first and a slight _Aguamenti minima_ on the second. While waiting for the dried ink to dissolve and become usable, he searched until he found a quill under a bed in the seventh year dorm, and trimmed and slit it with the knife he'd caught in the corridor. He took parchment, ink, and quill, and dragged a small table in front of the chair nearest the fire, absently chewed on the end of the quill as he thought. After a few moments, he began to write.

_I'm not doing this_, he wrote. _I'm not waiting for you. _

_I'm not waiting for you to wake, to talk to me, to listen… _

_I'm not imagining my fingers in your hair, holding your hand, feeling for your pulse._

_I'm not rehearsing apologies… not wondering whether your heart beats strongly enough for me to feel it, if my head were resting on your chest._

_I'm not thinking of that at all._

_I'm not aching for your forgiveness, reading your words in the margins of pages, wishing you'd let me _know _you._

_I'm not living the years over again, living them differently, with respect and admiration and _effort_ this time, wanting _your_ respect… wanting to be a man in your eyes._

_I'm not trying to better myself, knowing it's likely in vain, but trying anyway._

_I'm not thinking of everything I want from you… want _for _you… want _with _you. I'm not thinking of that at all._

_I'm not having guilty thoughts about your body – your legs, your calves, your chest, your bits… wondering what it would be like for you to touch me… to allow my touch. I'm not wanking off to the memory of you, then cursing myself afterwards. I'm not taking cold baths to keep myself from doing that. I'm not thinking of you that way at all._

_I'm not sleeping in your bed, surrounded by the scents of potions and the feel of your magic, not falling asleep, falling into your memories, falling into my memories of you._

_I'm not falling in love with you. How could I be?_

_I'm not._

_I'm not._

_I'm not._

He tried to keep the tears from falling onto the page as he wrote, but toward the end, he didn't even care. The ink smudged and blurred, but it didn't matter. It wasn't some Potions essay to turn in. No one would ever read it – not even him. It was just a way to get it out of his system, though his chest ached hollowly, once he was done. He sighed, wiped a hand across his eyes, and sat back, twirling the quill, heedless of the ink stains it left on his fingers. After a while, he left the quill on the table, capped the ink, picked up his wand and the knife, and left the common room to search the castle – for what, he did not know.


	12. Chapter 12

**Never Done  
**  
Chapter 12

Potter – _blasted Potter_ – left. Or, more accurately, Snape forced him from his quarters, a blast of anger bursting from him in chaotic, uncontrolled magic. _Where's my wand, damn it? _He wanted to blast the boy's denims to bits, banish every trace of the boy from his quarters. He felt… so… _violated_. _How _dare _the boy invade his rooms? How _dare _he? Arrogant, conceited, _bastard_ – just like his father! Everything belonged to him as a matter of bloody _right_! He had no right to be here! He had no right!_

Snape forced himself to stand still, to control his breathing, to unclench his fists. He focused on breathing, telling himself to _stand down! _It frightened him, this lack of control. He shouldn't _have _to invoke calm. Calm was his normal demeanor. Where was his control? He focused on slowing down his heart, telling it that there was no threat worth its racing. He focused on loosening tightened muscles, at which point, the need for something to sit upon became urgent, lest he fall down. He moved shakily to the sofa, nearly collapsing onto it, thoroughly drained.

It took a long time before he recovered enough to stir from his initial position, though he had not fallen asleep, merely sat as if boneless, head thrown against the back of the sofa, looking at nothing. Finally, his energy began to return, though he certainly felt the worse for wear. His eyes finally focused on bookshelves that flanked the fireplace, and he absently noted the pattern with which they were filled – a full shelf here and there, gaps between sets of books in other places, completely empty shelves, especially near the top, dominating. He turned his head to look around. His study was in shambles, books, papers, clothing, even pillows torn and scattered around the room. Apparently his blast hadn't been strong enough to displace heavier things.

He sighed, stood, and went to pull his wand from the pocket of his robe, only to realize _No robe. No wand. _He groaned in frustration – both at his lack of a wand and at the evidence of his… _Tantrum. Face it, Severus. That's what it was._

_Frontal lobe damage._

_Frontal lobe damage be damned! You _will _contain yourself!_

How he longed for a talk with Dumbledore! He doubted talking with Minerva would help him put things in perspective as well as talking with Albus would have. He couldn't bloody well march up to Minerva's office and demand his wand back so he could set his rooms to rights. Anger shifted to embarrassment and shame. _Oh, lord – what if she comes down to check on me?_ If he had a wand – even Potter's wand – he could cast a single, simple spell to set things right. He doubted he could carry it off wandlessly, between the exhaustion from his rage and the fact he was still recovering. He raised a hand and murmured, "_Evanesco!_" aiming it toward a pile of torn papers. Nothing. "_Reparo!_" Nothing, save a slight movement. He sighed. _Well, that was to be expected. _Before he could get trapped in self-recrimination, he set about cleaning up the mess as best he could without magic.

Some time later, tired and more than a little disgusted with himself, he called for a house elf to bring him afternoon tea. There was a crack of apparition…

"Kreacher! What - ?"

The elf gave a jerky bow. "Master Snape called for a house elf, sir."

"Why aren't you at Grimmauld Place?"

"Master Harry Potter is here, sir. Master Harry needs Kreacher, so Kreacher comes to help."

"When…?"

"Kreacher comes the day of the big wizard battle. Kreacher fights the bad wizards!" The elf drew himself up, a glint of pride in his eyes.

Snape stared at him. "You… _Why?_"

"Master Harry fights for _all _magical beasts and beings. Kreacher and the elves of Hogwarts help."

Snape gaped at the elf, caught himself at it, and struggled to find something to say. It was nearly unprecedented for _any _other being or beast to voluntarily get mixed up in conflicts between wizards, no matter how large or pervasive. The house elves had never, in all of wizarding history, taken part in any conflict. Never. "I… I hope all is well…"

Kreacher's face softened a bit. "Pickins is no longer serving Hogwarts. Pickins has gone to his reward."

"… My condolences to… to all of you."

"Pickins is buried with the heroes of Hogwarts. Master Harry insisted," Kreacher said.

_There it was again – Potter, blasted Potter, involved in, intruding on, _everything_… as if he had the right._

_Well, maybe he does,_ some part of him admitted, _in this, at least._ He tried to tell that part of him to shut up, but it chided him back, noting, _It was the right thing to do._

_Still not his prerogative._

The other side of him maintained a pointed, eloquent silence.

"Kreacher… tea?"

"Yes, Master Snape." The elf bowed and disappeared with a crack, returning shortly with a tray laden with tea, milk, honey, and finger sandwiches, and pattered about, fussing over laying the table formally, until Snape ordered him out. Snape missed the sly, calculating look the elf cast him before he popped back to the kitchen.

He ate, then returned to his bedroom for a desperately-needed nap – only to be confronted with Potter's denims again. He hesitated, picked them up by two fingers as if they were one of Hagrid's disgusting experiments in breeding, and dropped them to the floor, then lay down and ordered himself to sleep. The denims bothered him. Still. Unbidden images of Potter shinnying out of his denims, pulling off a shirt, leaving him only in his smalls came to him, interspersed with the recollection of Potter wanking in near silence, in the infirmary. He groaned and turned over to lie on his stomach, then flipped back when he realized he was rutting against the mattress.

_Clear your mind! _he ordered himself. _Control your emotions!_

_Merlin!_

That brought him to Occlumency lessons with Potter… glaring into the boy's face, dragging him bodily up off the floor, grabbing him by the neck of his robes and yanking him close enough to Legilimize him… close enough to…

_No!_

He forced himself to recite potion recipes by heart until he fell asleep.

…oooOOOooo…

"Potter! How are you? How is Severus?"

Harry stopped short of the main entrance. "Oh – I'm… I'm feeling better, Headmistress."

"How is Severus?"

"Uh…"

"Is he resting?" The question was accompanied by a soft, skeptical snort.

"It… I don't know exactly. I… I needed to go for a walk." He gestured toward the door. "I thought I'd go see Hagrid." He had no intention of seeing Hagrid – he just needed to get out of the castle, clear his mind, get some perspective.

"He's not wandering the castle, is he?"

"Last I saw, he was in his quarters, Professor. And he didn't look ready to go anywhere." That much, at least, was true.

"Humph." McGonagall frowned at him suspiciously. "Fine, Potter. _Do _try to stay out of trouble, won't you? And don't go too far. And _no magic!_" she reminded him.

He nodded in agreement, and pulled open the door, blinking in the sudden sunlight that made him wince in momentary pain. He paused just outside the doors to give his eyes time to adjust, then took off down the broad stairs to the grounds, heading toward the Black Lake and Dumbledore's tomb.

He'd come here the day after the battle, to restore Dumbledore's tomb from the damage it took at Voldemort's hand, and to return the Elder Wand. He felt the need for Dumbledore's counsel now, missed him keenly, wondered what he'd say if Harry got up the nerve to confess his confusing feelings toward Snape.

He imagined Dumbledore's eyes would twinkle, but that he'd caution Harry against getting too close to the prickly potions master… not to expect too much from the man, if he tried. "Professor Snape is a difficult man at the best of times," he suspected Dumbledore would say.

_So am I._

"He does not trust easily, Harry. He does not give himself easily."

_I know that._

"Treat him carefully. I don't want either of you to be hurt."

_I'll be careful._

"I'm trusting you, Harry."

He wondered if Snape trusted him. He snorted. _Obviously not._ Was that what he wanted? Trust?

_At least that._

H reached the lake and planted himself on the ground, sitting with his back against the cool marble of Dumbledore's tomb, facing the lake. The sun was warm, but it never did get hot, this far north, and this high up.

_How do you gain someone's trust? How do you gain _Snape's _trust?_

By being reliable… by being consistent… by being honest…

It was odd. Of all the people he'd ever known, there were few who had been honest with him. Remus, maybe, though even Remus had wanted to keep things from him, thinking that would protect Harry somehow. And as much as he had trusted Dumbledore, the man had not exactly been open and honest with him… had kept things from him, not only to supposedly spare him, but also to be strategic in the fight against Voldemort. He supposed he couldn't blame the man, but it was hard to be completely all right with having been manipulated – even if he did survive the experience.

He remembered Snape's reaction when Dumbledore finally told him that Harry would have to die. _I thought we were protecting him…_ Snape had looked horrified, _sounded _horrified. And though, when Dumbledore asked, Snape had as good as denied coming to care for Harry, casting his Patronus and allowing Dumbledore to think it was Lily he was thinking of, that didn't entirely explain the look on Snape's face, or his horror and anger.

_Did he care about me? _The longing for that made Harry's chest hurt. _What do I want from him?_

He wondered why he felt these… _things _… for Snape, wondered why he was having a hard time pinning down what it meant.

He picked at the grass as he sat and thought, running his hands across the tops of the blades, allowing them to tickle his palm, running his fingers through them as he'd run his fingers through Snape's hair while he'd been comatose. _Snape would be furious if he knew_, he thought with a wry smile.

He'd never done such a thing before. The closest he'd come was scratching behind Padfoot's ears. And Sirius was… something between an uncle and a brother, he thought, his feelings for his godfather not quite those toward Ron… not quite as respectful as, say, his respect for Lupin. He imagined that, had his parents lived, had he grown up knowing all of them, Lupin would have been the wise uncle he'd have confided in, and Sirius the person he'd go to for mischief and fun. As it was, the closest he had had to a father was probably Arthur Weasley, who treated him almost like his own sons. And Dumbledore… Dumbledore would have been a grandfather, he supposed.

But Snape… where did he fit in the family structure Harry was creating in his mind? He imagined Snape would always have been that dark, compelling _other_ – different enough to always capture his attention, mysterious, magnetic.

Harry grunted. If he'd grown up with his parents and Snape had been around – as unlikely as that seemed, given the enmity between him and James – he'd still find himself seeking Snape out… trailing after him… annoying him, no doubt… wanting… _something._ And being tossed out on his ear, no doubt, just like now.

Was there _any _way to earn Snape's respect? His trust? His – Harry took a deep breath – his friendship?

His mother had done it.

He reviewed the memories Snape had given him, turned them over in his mind as if examining them in Dumbledore's Pensieve, searching for patterns and insight. She had been kind… and non-judgmental… But in the end, she had not forgiven Snape one slip, one harsh word, had not seen past the word to consider circumstances, had not seen Snape in the context of their entire history together, or in the context in which he'd uttered the unforgiven word, had rejected him. She was rejecting Snape for his companions, too, Harry knew – for his increasing involvement with the people who would go on to become Death Eaters… but she'd had more influence than she had known, could have turned him to another path, if her friendship had remained true. When she rejected him, she took away the only thing of true value that he had, and left him seeking friendship elsewhere… no matter that it was false.

Harry had the advantage of seeing more than she had – seeing the man Snape became – a person of incredible courage and integrity, who devoted his entire adult life to others, not just as a teacher, but as a warrior, alone, accepting his solitude and the misunderstanding of others in order to protect the very persons who judged him unworthy. It brought tears to Harry's eyes, just thinking about it – how he'd misjudged Snape, thought him untrustworthy, called him "coward". Nothing could be further from the truth. He had lived a life of courage every minute of Harry's existence, and before… had protected the child he should have hated, should have rejected… who hated and rejected him. The injustice of it made Harry's chest ache.

"I'm so sorry, Professor," he whispered. "I can never, never make it up to you."

He felt so hopeless and helpless in the face of their former antipathy that he almost gave up. Almost decided he should just leave… leave the man alone… stay out of his way… get out of his life and let him find peace… Almost. But the drive to somehow make it up to the man, and the irresistible _need _for… _something…_ kept him rooted to the spot, to Hogwarts, to wherever Snape was. He could practically feel his heart tugged in the man's direction, and he knew he could not do it – could not leave without trying to… to give _something_ back. Not that he had anything worthwhile to give…

He didn't know how long he sat there, alternating between hope and despair, but eventually, the sun's descent made itself known in the chill air. It was time he got back to the castle, and supper. He hoped Snape could make it to the Great Hall all right on his own. He rose, shook out his stiffness, and turned to go find out.

…oooOOOooo…

Twenty-plus years of living with the rhythm of Hogwarts' daily schedule brought Snape awake shortly before suppertime, satisfied and reassured by the resumption of that automaticity. Without much thought, he went to his bathroom to wash up, the soaps, lotions, and potions with which he had always stocked his personal grooming space so familiar as to be beneath notice. Still on automatic, his mind already listing things to discuss with McGonagall, he went to his wardrobe to fetch a robe, forgetting that he had earlier decided his clothes wouldn't be there.

His robes were, in fact, there, on the left side of the wardrobe. On the right hung shorter robes, black trimmed with Gryffindor red. Looking down, he saw unfamiliar clothing folded neatly on the shelf below the robes, and a small pair of boots beneath those, on the floor of the wardrobe. He gripped one of his own robes with a shaking hand. _I don't have time for this!_ he thought with a growl. Forcing it from his mind, he turned his back on the wardrobe and threw his robe over his shoulders, buttoned his waistcoat, and yanked on his sleeves. His eyes roamed restlessly over his room, noting things subtly out of place, but approximately as he would have arranged them himself. A leather-bound book sat on the nightstand next to his bed – no doubt something Potter had contaminated his quarters with. What on earth could the boy have been reading? A quick _Tempus_ indicated he had best hurry if he did not wish to make an entrance at supper. He glared at the book. _Later_, he promised it threateningly.

_Later_, he would demand an accounting from Potter – and from McGonagall. What had the woman been thinking, allowing the boy into his quarters? Did she know he had been rifling through Snape's belongings? Surely not! A student would never be allowed such… intimacy.

_Not a student_, some part of him noted.

_Shut up! _he replied.

…oooOOOooo…

Snape walked through the tunnel under the Black Lake, long legs eating up the distance, reveling in the fact that he was blessedly _alone_, at last, without minders or nursemaids hovering over him. That he was still here at all was something he had not yet had time to contemplate, but _this_ was easy – pacing familiar corridors, heading to the Great Hall… The path there was replete with reminders of the battle. Dust hung suspended in the air, and sounds of stone grinding on stone echoed, bouncing from wall to arched ceiling high overhead, back to wall, in a confusing cacophony that made it hard to think, let alone make sense of the din. He refused to look at the floor, refused to notice stains and shadows. He glanced to his left as the approached the Great Hall, and stopped, stunned by the appearance of stone staircases hanging drunkenly in places, and grinding in uncertain movement in others. _Good god, how damaged had the castle _been_, that, months after the battle, this was still her condition?_ Mind cataloging damage and repair progress, things to be checked on – Were the basic wards up? – he quickened his pace, paused to consider using the faculty entrance to the Great Hall, and dismissed that, given the faculty was apparently using House tables rather than the head table.

As he neared the Great Hall, one of the doors at the front entrance opened, and Potter slipped through. Head down, the boy did not notice him. They reached the Great Hall at the same time, and he watched as the boy's eyes tracked their way from his shoes to his chest, then met his eyes. Potter paled, then flushed.

"Good evening, Professor," he said. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something else, but ducked his head away, and turned to push open the doors to the Great Hall. Snape glared at the back of his head as he followed the boy into the Hall.

It was disorienting to find the hall filling with adults, rather than eleven to eighteen year old students, no high-pitched squeals among the babble, no complaints of unfair treatment, no hexes and jinxes and bullying to watch out for, no need to monitor, really, except that would require Snape to alter a lifetime of suspicion and vigilance. He searched the growing crowd around the Gryffindor table for signs of trouble, not letting down his guard, irritated when he realized he was watching Potter's back protectively, lest someone make a move to harm the boy.

_There have been threats… _the boy had said.

Before he got to the Ravenclaw table, where Sprout and McGonagall already sat in conversation, someone cast a transfiguration spell on the bench again, dividing it in two, with an armed chair between the two halves, obviously meant for him. He stifled a surge of annoyance, acknowledging that clambering over a bench to seat himself for dinner would probably tax his balance and muscle strength. He wasn't quite ready for that, yet. He nodded greeting at Minerva and Pomona, and watched as Potter hesitated, then took the bench to his right, edging only slightly further away than he had sat at the noonday meal. He grimaced, then pulled the chair out and sat himself.

Thankfully, Potter kept to himself over dinner. If he needed something, he asked one of the other professors to pass it. He did not intrude on Snape's space, and spoke only when spoken to.

"I noticed the castle is still in a state of disrepair," Snape said to McGonagall. "You will let me know what I can do to help?"

"If you and Potter can see to the hexes and traps in the dungeons, Severus, that will be a big help. We don't seem to be able to get any further than your quarters – and even that, we needed Potter's help to accomplish. He seems to be able to sense where these things are, and how to dismantle them safely."

Snape glanced sideways at the boy, who kept his head down, but had a thoughtful look on his face. Snape forbore from making the cutting remark that flew to his lips – something about Potter having hitherto unknown talents, or any talents whatsoever. "Whatever you need, Professor," was the boy's only response.

Snape wasn't sure what the point of having them both manage the task, with only one wand between them, but supposed that if Potter could sniff out the traps, he, Snape, could commandeer the boy's wand to dispel the hex or jinx. He nodded at Minerva in acquiescence.

"Kingsley would like to meet with you, now that you're up and about," she said. "He'll be here for breakfast tomorrow. I'll see you both in my quarters after that." He nodded again.

Supper continued with general discussion of the castle's repairs, primarily related to readiness for the upcoming term, which would clearly have to be delayed. As he got up to leave, Pomfrey called for his attention. "I'll see both of you forthwith," she said, nodding to include Potter.

Potter hesitated a moment, then nodded and rose as well. Snape spared him a look, then turned and led the way out of the hall. When he would have turned to take the most direct route to the infirmary, Potter grabbed his elbow.

"Not that way. The staircases that way are too dangerous after dark, and that side of the hall is too broken up to risk it. We need to go this way," and led Snape to the right, rather than to the left. Snape would have been irritated by the circuitous path the boy led him on, were it not for the precariously balanced stones and occasional missing flagstones they skirted around. In addition to the wall sconces, Potter kept his wand lit and pointed at the floor, and paused every so often to listen for shifting stone. Snape assumed the accident that had fractured his skull was making him overly cautious, but he could hardly blame him for that. He followed in Potter's wake, annoyed at being dependent on the boy picking their path, watching Potter step lightly and carefully through the castle.

Poppy examined Potter first, narrowing her eyes as she waved her wand over his head. "You've hit your head on something again, Potter, what happened?"

The boy looked confused, then shot a guilty look at Snape, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, impatient to return to his quarters. "Uh… I… I think I just bumped into something – wasn't watching where I was going."

Poppy snorted skeptically, and gave him a lecture on taking care of his "thick skull", while tutting over what Snape was sure was the slight jostling the boy must have taken when he pushed the boy out of his room. Potter winced as she felt the back of his skull, but said nothing, keeping his eyes down. She handed him a vial of pain killer, anyway. "You'll likely have a head ache tonight. No magic for another day or two, yet, Mr. Potter. Do not make me set an inhibiting spell on you."

"No. I won't. I promise."

She "humphed" and turned to Snape. Potter hung about uncertainly, despite Snape's glare. Poppy seemed pleased with what her diagnostic spells showed her. "You've rested. That's good. Keep it up and you'll be right as rain in no time, Severus. Keep your use of magic to a minimum for a while. Using too much could set you back." The boy shot him a glare back, at that.

"No need to worry on my account, Poppy. I'm perfectly capable…"

She interrupted him with a sniff. "You'll be _perfectly capable_ when I say you are, Severus Snape, and not a minute before!" Her stern words were belied by her gentle pat on his arm. She dismissed them, handing Snape a vial of Calming Potion, cautioning him about it use, to his evident irritation. Harry understood that, and even thought Snape was only just as irritated as he'd have normally been, no more than his usual, acerbic self. She reminded them to return nightly until told otherwise, and Snape turned to leave the infirmary, his robes billowing about him satisfactorily.

Potter double-stepped to catch up to Snape, and turned to the left at the bottom of the staircase, rather than to the right.

"Where do you think you're going?" Snape asked.

"Library," he replied, without meeting Snape's eyes.

"Don't lie to me, Potter!"

"I'm not!" His head shot up and he met the Potion Master's dark gaze for a moment before tearing his eyes away, still frozen in place, out of habit, as if Snape had the right to detain him.

_He's hiding something_, Snape thought, but he did not have the energy – or perhaps the will, right now – to confront him. He glared at the boy, whirled, and took the stairs down another flight, to the tunnel that led to Slytherin territory.

Harry continued on to the library. It was only partly pretext – he did not want to walk down to the dungeons with Snape and risk that the man would forbid him to use the Slytherin dorms, but he also wanted something to read, if only to keep his mind occupied.

The library was deserted, Madam Pince being away this week to visit relatives, before returning to the task of cleaning and repairing the library, with its vast collection. She'd nearly had a nervous breakdown, confronting the task, and McGonagall had sent her away, assuring her that the elves and Maintenance Department workers would do nothing to harm the precious books, nor attempt to repair damaged volumes.

The library doors opened at his touch, a tingle of magic flowing from his fingers to the doors and back. He shook his head at the evidence that the battle had flowed even here, but there were signs of progress, as well, the tables and chairs and study nooks nearly all restored. He avoided one stack of bookshelves, swaying precariously as if in a breeze, and headed down the left-hand aisle, toward the Forbidden Section. He slipped under the rope that cordoned it off from the main collection. Pausing just a moment, in case some general alarm would be set off, he moved purposely to a section he had glimpsed in earlier, illicit forays, made under his invisibility cloak.

He snorted and a small smile appeared on his face for a moment. _Hermione would think I've gone batty_, he thought. _Probably check me for fever._ His fingers traced over the volumes, leaving a trail of evidence that wiped dust from titles: _Hogwarts: A History, Focus on the Founders: A History of Hogwarts' Houses, Education in Wizarding Britain, Methods of Magical Pedagogy, Legal Matters in Wizarding History, Leaning on Ley Lines… _He paused at that one, and pulled it partly out of alignment with the others. He'd come back to it. But that was not the tome he sought… if he was remembering rightly…

_Here it is! Invoking the Stone: Magic and the Sentience of Inanimate Things._

He stuck the potions knife through his belt, careful to angle it so as not to stick himself, stuck his wand up his sleeve, and pulled out the heavy tome, careful of its tooled-leather binding. What had captured his attention the first time through, he thought, was the imprint of the silhouette of Hogwarts Castle as seen from the Black Lake, from the direction the first years approached it in the boats, led by Hagrid. It was a unique perspective, seen only that once, typically – Hogwarts silhouetted against the night sky, seen from the middle of the lake. He would never forget it.

Holding the book firmly in one hand, in case it was animated, he opened the front cover. Magic flowed from the frontispiece to his fingers and back. He paused, smirking and shaking his head, then turned to the index, and ran a finger down the listings: _Sentience Defined, Magical Constructions, Sympathetic Magic, The Unique Case of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, A Cautionary Tale_, _Invoking the Stone…_

This could be it... the explanation he was seeking... the reason the castle felt different to him now, why it responded to him. He needed to figure it out, find out if it was dangerous, though... it didn't _feel_ dangerous...

He was only halfway down the listing when a hand reached around his chest, grabbed him by the front of his robe, and yanked, dragging him, yelping in protest and shock, up the aisle and out of the library. He reflexively clutched the ancient tome in one hand, trying to maintain his hold on it as he struggled, his other hand clawing at one hand that held him captive, gasping for breath as it twisted his robe tighter about his neck.


	13. Chapter 13

**Never Done **

Chapter 13

Snape watched Potter head off to the library, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, before whirling to head down the stairs to his quarters. Involuntarily, his mind focused on the twit, guiltily remembering the boy's head hitting the wall when Snape had wandlessly pushed him out of his quarters.

He had not shrugged off the irritating concern by the time he reached his quarters, then stopped, abruptly aware that he did not know the password. _To his own quarters, blast it!_ He tried the last password he had used down here, more than a year ago. Nothing. He tried _Dumbledore_, the password to his quarters as Headmaster, to no avail. _Blasted boy!_ _What would he have used?_

_Quidditch. _Nothing.

_Seeker. _Nothing

_Ron Weasley._

_Granger._

_Ginny._

_Sirius Black._

_Padfoot._

_Lupin._

_What was that bloody elf's name? Bobby? Dobby! _Nothing.

_Gryffindor. Godric Gryffindor. Godric's Hollow…_

_Snakes._

_Voldemort_, he tried, feeling queasy.

_Lily Potter_, he whispered. _James Potter. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One_, he sneered_._

Nothing.

He pounded his fist against the door in frustration. "Salazar, damn it, let me in!" Nothing.

Fury and humiliation welled up inside him. The edges of his vision clouded with it, so that it was as if he looked through a tunnel even narrower than the corridor around him. He thumped the door one last time in anger, heedless of the bruising his hand was taking, and whirled back to the stairs, intent on finding Potter and making him _pay_ – right after he tore the password from his mind.

His anger had not abated by the time he reached the library – if anything, it had grown, due to the humiliation of stalking past startled workers from the Ministry, as if they knew he'd been locked out of _his own rooms!_ Potter was in the Restricted Section, the impudent brat. Snape conveniently ignored the fact that, had the boy been enrolled as a seventh year student, he would have had access to the section anyway, albeit under the watchful eyes of Madam Pince and the supervision of one of his instructors. The boy was so focused, he did not even look up as Snape approached. It was a wonder he had survived the previous year, oblivious as he was to his danger.

And Snape _was _a danger to the boy. He wanted to throttle him, and an image of slamming the boy against the stone wall next to his door made him snarl in satisfaction. Still, the boy did not look up. Stalking up behind him, Snape snaked an arm around the boy, grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, and twisted, yanking the boy off his feet and all but dragging him out of the library, through the main hall, to the head of the stairs leading back the way he had come. Without pausing to let the boy find his feet, he continued down the stairs, dragging the struggling boy with him, trying to ignore the burn in his muscles, protesting the vigorous workout after three months of inactivity. No matter. If they gave way, he would simply drop the boy. It would almost be worth it.

The boy finally got his feet under him halfway through the tunnel under the Black Lake. Although he continued to clutch at Snape's hand and arm, he no longer struggled to get away, double-stepping to keep up the pace Snape set them, not stopping until they reached the door to his quarters again.

"Unward the damned door!" he snarled, thrusting the boy at the offending slab of wood.

"What?"

"Release the ward! Turn it over to me."

Potter looked at him in confusion. "I'm sorry, Professor. I… I don't know how."

"Damn it, Potter! I don't have time for a lesson in theoretical magic! Tell it to let me in!"

"I - "

"_Now!"_

…oooOOOooo…

Harry placed a hand against the door, feeling the castle's warm welcome flow over him and through him, making his fingers tingle. He paused a moment to analyze the feeling, but Snape's snarl at his side brought him out of that. He glanced at the man guiltily, then back at the door, startled when Snape reached around him to place his right hand next to Harry's.

_I release you to him, _Harry thought in desperation. Nothing happened.

_Let him in, as you let me in,_ he tried. The castle's magic pulsed around him and under his hand, but a glance at Snape's impatient face informed him that he had not yet found the key.

_As with my hand, so with his,_ Harry tried, and felt a hopeful surge of magic, but somehow knew that something else was needed. "Half-Blood Prince," he murmured.

"You have to say it loud enough for me to _hear_, you dolt!"

Snape's breath brushed across Harry's ear, and he leaned close enough that the warmth of his body behind him nearly made Harry groan. "Half-Blood Prince," he said again, his voice tight, face reddening, eyes closed, so that he did not see the surprise that flitted across Snape's face. He felt the wave of magic between his hand and Snape's, though. He expected to feel… a loss… a giving up, the loss of access to Snape's quarters as something physical, but that did not happen. The door gave a click, and moved minutely under his hand. He stood uncertainly, for a moment; then Snape grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him out of the way. Before he knew it, the man had brushed past him through the open door, spun and glared at him, and slammed the door in his face, leaving him, once more, staring at the blank space, wondering and bereft.

He looked down, surprised to find himself still holding onto the leather-bound volume he'd… apparently stolen… from the library. He'd leave a note for Madam Pince tomorrow, though he was uncertain this particular volume was allowed out of the library. Well – it was out, now. He might as well take advantage of the fact. Giving one last look at the door, trying to quell the misery he felt in his chest, he turned and headed back to the Slytherin common room.

He pushed through the thick spot in the corridor without thought, absently noting the lack of glitter that meant a knife flying toward him, conscious of the stiffness of the knife still tucked through his belt at his hip. "Half-Blood Prince," he murmured at the door to the common room, and it swung open to admit him. Kreacher must have entered some time during dinner: there was a fire in the fireplace, making the room cozy and chasing away the damp and gloom. Harry glanced at Salazar Slytherin's portrait. The man watched him silently, stroking his chin in contemplation. Harry hesitated, then nodded respectfully. Slytherin did not respond or react, beyond narrowing his eyes a bit.

"I'm just going to read a while," he said, feeling somewhat foolish. The portrait remained silent. "All right, then," Harry said, and selected a spot on the sofa, facing the fire. He sat, then got up when the haft of the knife poked him in the ribs, withdrew it from his belt, thinking he should get himself a sheath if he was going to wear it, and placed it on the desk under Slytherin's portrait. The man's eyes followed him, and the portrait frowned slightly, but still said nothing. Harry nodded at him, and returned to the sofa, his neck prickling under the founder's constant gaze. Still, he had no intention of allowing the man – the _painting_ – to intimidate him. He determinedly put the portrait out of his mind and bent to his reading.

…oooOOOooo…

Snape yanked off his robes and threw them in the direction of the hooks by the door. Long habit made his aim sure, and they caught on one, dangling by an arm hole rather than neck. He was still flushed with rage, not helped by the boy's mocking password, chosen, no doubt, to insult and humiliate the man. He found himself pacing, pounding heels into stone that changed to soft carpet underfoot as he wore a path around his study. His_ study_, _damn it! What the hell was Potter doing in _his_ study? _

It occurred to him that perhaps this would be a good time to take a bit of calming draught. He went through his room to the bathroom, and pulled the vial from the shelf under the mirror. "Oh, calm down, dear! Nothing is worth being _that _upset! It's bad for your complexion. I can see the capillaries in your face are ready to burst! That will age you prematurely, you know," the mirror admonished him.

"Quiet, you!" he snarled, but inhaled a calming breath, tilted the vial of calming draught into his mouth and took three drops, allowing the vile taste to slide off his tongue, suppressing a shudder. Moments later, he felt his body relax, his blood pressure return to normal, and the pressure in his jaw from clenching his teeth give way. He sighed, shook his head, and snorted at himself. _Brain damage. Nagini venom._ He was going to have to find a way to manage this without constantly ingesting calming potion, he knew. He shook his head again. _A warm bath. That's what he needed._

He turned and flicked his hand, missing his wand again, but determinedly ignoring the aching absence. This much, this close, he could manage. The bath filled with blessedly hot water. He grabbed his personal mix of bath balm – salts, oils, and scents – without thinking about their presence in his quarters, and dumped a good measure into the bathwater, which instantly frothed, and began giving off a soothing steam. He groaned, doffed his clothing, not bothering with the fact that, uncharacteristically, he'd merely left them where they lay, and stepped into the tub. Sinking into the brew, he again groaned in bliss. _This_, he had _missed._ Never mind that he'd been comatose and unable to miss anything, technically.

He lay for a while in the hot, steamy water, relishing the soothing it gave to body and mind, his eyes closed. After a while, the images that streamed past his mind's eye – composed far too frequently for comfort of _Potter_, in one way or another, bothered him enough that he opened his eyes. Staring at stone walls did little to banish them. Reluctant to leave the bath merely to escape… _Potter_, of all things, he fought off a touch of irritation. He needed something to occupy his mind and banish Potter from his brain.

A book – that's what he needed. He closed his eyes again and flicked his left wrist in a summons, wincing at the sudden ache that was the remnant of the healing still ongoing – _defensive wounds. _He opened his mind at the sound of paper fluttering as a book sailed through the doorway and hovered over him.

_Hmm…_ It was the leather-bound item from his nightstand, the spot where his current reading material usually ended up. He'd summoned from that direction automatically, without thought. He gave a mental shrug, and held the book in the air by force of will, opening it with a thought rather than with his wet hands. Sinking further into the water, so that only his head remained above the blessed heat of it, he began to read.

…oooOOOooo…

Harry summoned a sheet of parchment from the desk, tore a strip from it to use as a place holder, and shut the heavy tome. His head was spinning with images his reading had provoked – diagrams of ley lines and magic, as if he could sketch out the flow of the energy he could feel in the walls and floor of the castle that had been his home for six years, and was his home again… as if he could diagram the connection he felt increasingly strong between himself and the school, the castle, her grounds. _Later_, he thought. _Maybe it will make more sense later. _He cast a tempus. It was nearly midnight. He'd read longer than he thought.

Feeling lonelier than he had ever felt at Hogwarts, even lonelier than he had felt when his fellow Gryffindors had turned on him and even Ron wasn't talking to him, before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, he turned toward the seventh year dorm. It had a cold feel to it, though, as he stood in the doorway, and he could not make himself enter. He walked further down the hallway to the sixth year dorm, where he and Kreacher had dispatched several minor hexes and traps. The room felt warmer, more human. Draco had slept here. And Regulus Black. And despite the hexes, the people who had last slept here had been… at least relatively innocent. He entered and waved his wand at the fireplace to set it to nighttime levels that would stay until the morning.

He had no pajamas… and there were no mattresses. He looked about and found a sheet of parchment which he transfigured into a mattress. A second sheet transfigured into a blanket. He stripped, shivering slightly, down to his undershirt and skivvies, crawled under the blanket, and realized he had no pillow. Groaning slightly, and feeling more than a little sorry for himself, he flipped to his stomach, buried his head against one arm, and gradually fell asleep, his mind whirling away on diagrams of energy and connection.

…oooOOOooo…

Snape read until the bathwater turned cool from inattention, until he shivered from the cool of it, at the end of one entry in what turned out to be – of all things – Potter's journal. He read at the start for lack of something to do, and continued out of fascination… grief… confusion. The boy… _the young man_… had written about his friends, their injuries, their recovery… about the people who had died in the battle, listing each one, whether he knew them or not, and the manner in which they had fought and died, if he could find out from talking with others… about Snape's own injuries and continued unconsciousness… about others who had been injured or who had sacrificed along the way.

Tears streamed down Snape's face, unnoticed. _Colin Creevy._ _But… he was underage… what was he doing in the battle? _

_Lupin. Dear god! _The last of Lily's friends… of Potter's… _Harry's_… father's friends… the last one who could tell the boy about his parents… The last one who could have given Snape absolution.

_Lupin… Dear god!_

_And Tonks. _His stomach clenched and he fought against the vomit that wanted to crawl up his gullet, remembering his snide comments to the woman about her changed Patronus. It was the last they'd spoken. He'd never addressed her, never acknowledged her, during the rushed Order meetings at Grimmauld Place.

_Fred Weasley._ _Oh gods! Arthur… Molly… How could they stand to _look_ at him, let alone… help him to the loo… tuck him in?_

He felt increasingly sick… and increasingly respectful of… Potter. Potter's grief was apparent, as was his sense of guilt, pervading the pages, triggering a protest in Snape's heart and mind. _It's not your fault, you idiotic boy!_

The boy was having nightmares, chronicled in painful, sometimes tearful, to judge by splash marks that blurred the ink from time to time, detail… memories of his confrontation with the Dark Lord… some nightmare of having talked with Dumbledore in a strangely transformed King's Cross Station, talking about life and death and choice… as if the boy had ever had a choice… the recollection of Fred Weasley's death... nightmares of even the friends who had survived relatively unscathed ending up dead and broken…

_I put it back_, the boy wrote one day. _I don't ever want to use it. I don't ever want it to use me. If I die and no one knows… it all ends, and this will never happen again._ What the _it _was was unclear, but Snape practically ached at the naivety of the boy's belief that anything he could do or not do would prevent evil from raising its inevitable head again. He wished he could protect the boy from that.

He shook that off. _What am I thinking? I'm well rid of that responsibility. I think my promise to Dumbledore is met, my debt to Lily, paid. _But he felt uncomfortable at the thought of Potter, wandering the world, naïve, trusting, hoping, and… unsafe. _Fool boy! _His stomach clenched in guilt and fear.

Potter had attended every funeral… tended to every one of the injured who were treated at Hogwarts, visited everyone who had needed the more intensive care at St. Mungo's, reported details in meetings with the Ministry over, and over, and over. _Gods! No wonder the boy had nightmares!_

Increasingly, though, the entries were about Snape – his progress, or lack thereof, records of vital signs, observations about his wounds, expressions of frustration at Pomfrey or at the healer from St. Mungo's, who apparently consulted during the majority of Snape's recovery… surprisingly perceptive questions about potions and poultices… And increasingly, comments on Snape's character, his person, his habits, his motivations, his allegiances, his actions… as if Potter were analyzing every interaction he'd ever had with his Potions professor, or everything he knew or could find out… slicing and dicing every bit of memory that he had gleaned from what Snape had insisted he take, as he lay dying, he thought, in the Shrieking Shack…

The boy sounded like he was arguing with himself… trying to talk himself out of something. Snape expected the boy's comments to be harsh, judgmental, critical… he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the boy to turn questioning to hatred, to a final judgment, to a demand for retribution or an accounting… But they never did. His comments maintained their questioning tone… a desire for understanding… a desire to be understood… gratitude, even.

_Idiot boy,_ Snape thought, but, try as he might, it held no rancor.

_I hope he likes his rooms. He can't have damp, with those wounds of his – they'll ache down here in the dungeons if we can't get rid of the damp. And it needs to be warmer. And we have to get rid of all the dark corners… leave no place for boggarts. I can't imagine what his boggart would be. He's lived a nightmare…_

_He's brilliant. The things he writes in the pages of his text books… it's Advanced Potions all over again, but with years of study and experience added. I love his snarky comments though. Snape has a wicked sense of humor. Who'd have thought?! I bet Ron would never believe me. Hermione would though… I wonder how they're doing…_

_I wish he would wake up. I'd give anything for him to yell at me again. I'd give anything for him to _talk_ to me again. I wonder if he'll give me a chance to apologize._

Apologize? For what?

_Ron and Hermione say I should leave… move on… join the Aurors or something… but… I _can't._ What if he wakes up and I'm not here? What if he… leaves Hogwarts… goes somewhere… far away… _leaves?_ What if I can't ever find him… tell him I'm sorry… tell him I understand… I just want him to wake up. I just want to know he's all right. _

_I… think I'm done with Ginny. I don't think I… I don't think I want to be with anyone… any girl, I guess. What if I'm… gay? There. I said it. Oh gods! What if I'm gay? What will Ron think? Oh, god… they'll never understand._

_I couldn't stand it if Snape despises me because I'm gay._

It ended there… and Snape became aware of how chilled he was, of the water dripping into the bath from the faucet… of his wrinkled fingers and toes. He waved the book to sit on the sink, spelled the water hot to warm him a bit, enough to hazard getting out and toweling off, his mind reeling from what he had read, from what the boy had gone through while Snape had been blissfully unconscious… about… the meaning of the boy's actions in his quarters. It had been a gift. And Snape had shoved him out…

His stomach curdled in shame and guilt.

He pulled on sleep pants – _And who had placed those, folded so carefully, into his dresser? Potter, apparently. _– and a long-sleeved sleep shirt, folded a robe about himself and slipped his feet into slippers placed carefully at the bottom of his wardrobe, aware with every step that it had been _Potter_ who had so thoughtfully arranged things. Despite his attire, he was cold. Eschewing tea as a solution, he went out to his study, opened a corner cabinet, and found – as somehow he knew he would – a bottle of Ogden's Finest. He poured himself a glass of the amber liquid, sat himself on the sofa, and stared into the dying embers, sipping the brandy and feeling it burn its way down, quite satisfactorily. He barely allowed himself to experience it.

_Idiot_, he thought, and knew he meant himself, not the boy… the young man… who had penned his pain and doubt and guilt and loss… for three months… alone – virtually alone, because he'd given comfort, but acknowledged no need for comfort himself… because he'd had nightmares without the relief of Dreamless Sleep, worry without the comfort of Calming Draught, questioned his very identity without anyone to talk with about it…

_Gods, the boy was alone… at this very moment… and he, Snape, had thrown him out… Not that he wanted him _here_. Where was he? Had he left? Gone to Hogsmeade? Gone to McGonagall? Would she have put him up in Ravenclaw, despite his protests? Would he have just left? Would he have told anyone… told them why? Maybe he would have gone to the Weasley's. Surely not Grimmauld Place… the place had last been invaded by the Dark Lord's minions after that debacle at the Ministry. It would not be safe for the boy. Was he safe? Where was he?_

Guilt and worry had him pacing before he knew it. When he caught himself at it, he downed a dose of Calming Draught, despite the danger of adding it to the alcohol with which he had already dosed himself, and determinedly went to bed, intent on finding the boy in the morning, if only to assure himself he was safe. Eventually, his exhausted mind and body forced sleep upon him, and he sank into a decidedly unpeaceful slumber, haunted by dreams fueled by Potter's writing… and his guilt, some part of him aware that he slept in a bed _Potter_ had made up for him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Never Done**

Chapter 14

"Severus."

The man on the bed did not move.

"Severus!" the voice insisted. Snape slept on, and the voice huffed in indignation and discomfort, finally repeating itself in an uncharacteristically concerned and loud voice. "Professor Snape! Wake up! A student needs you!"

Snape rolled over, blinked, and sat up. Bleary-eyed, he looked around, his eyes instinctively going to the portrait hanging on the wall to the left. "Salazar. What is it?"

"There is… a… student… in need of aid."

Snape shook his head, disoriented. "Salazar… it's the middle of the summer. Isn't it? How could there be…" He sat up with a start. _Potter_. "Where is he?"

"In the sixth year dorm."

"What House, you idiot?"

"There's no need to snap at _me_, youngster! If you're going to be so snippy –" Salazar could give Snape lessons in snarkiness.

"_Which House, damn it?_" Snape was already sliding feet into slippers and grabbing a robe to throw over his sleepwear.

"Ours."

Snape paused to frown at him. "What do you mean, he's in _ours_?"

"I don't know, _Professor_. How many Houses do we have in common?" the portrait drawled.

Snape shook it off, irritably. "What's wrong with him?"

"From the sound of his caterwauling, I'd hazard he's having a nightmare. _Again._ Not that I blame him." Slytherin muttered that last sentence, but Snape heard him anyway.

"_Accio_ potion!" he called, flicking his right hand toward his bathroom. A vial slapped into his palm as he left his room, strode swiftly toward the door to his quarters, and took off toward the Slytherin dorm at a run, something he would never admit to, were he ever asked.

He was slowed down by a strange _thickening_ of the air in the corridor, halfway between his rooms and the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He cursed and fought his way through it, trying to feel for the magical signature of the witch or wizard, or the identity of the spell used to set the trap. Just as he broke through and turned back to investigate further, something silver flashed past his shoulder and clattered against the opposite wall, falling to the floor. He flinched and reached for his wand, growling in frustration at coming up empty-handed again.

"What the - ? _Potter!_" _Damn the boy! _It was clear Potter had set a trap to attack anyone venturing into Slytherin territory. _Though… I can hardly blame him…_

_There have been… threats…_

He took two steps toward the wall and bent to look at the thing – a boline, though better than student-quality. He frowned. Had he not turned, it would have impaled itself into his arm, if not between his ribs. He held a hand over it, testing passively for hexes or curses, but it felt clean. He poked it tentatively, and, feeling nothing untoward, cautiously picked it up, automatically testing its balance and sharpness. A fine tool, one he'd be proud to own. He wondered what the boy was doing with it, why he'd risked this obviously valuable item to protect himself with.

He shook off his momentary anger and the cold shiver that worked its way under his robes at the thought of Potter being attacked here, at school, where he should be safe, and turned back down the corridor. He'd have to help the boy… man… _Potter_… set traps that were effective but would not impale the stray professor… or Filch… though _that _thought made Snape's lips twitch as he reached the door to the common room. He tucked the boline into his belt, took a breath, thought no more than a moment, and said, "Half-Blood Prince," placing his hand on the door. It gave way. He shook his head as he entered and turned toward the left, and the boys' dorms, Potter's yells and moans directing him.

The second door on the right housed the sixth years, and he opened it hastily but carefully, not wanting to startle the boy. Potter was thrashing and writhing on his bed, cursing and crying and calling out, "No! No! You can't! Please! Please! Please!" he called a third time, sobbing.

Snape reached his side and observed him a moment, trying to assess the best way to intervene. The boy was drenched in sweat, his face so contorted in pain or grief or whatever had him in its grips that the tendons on his neck stood out starkly, even in the dim light from the fire. Potter gave an anguished sob that tore right through Snape's calm demeanor, and before he knew it, he had knelt at the bedside, reaching out an arm to place over Potter's shoulders.

"Potter. Potter! It's alright. It's over. You're alright. Potter!" The boy's thrashing and moaning continued. Snape raised his voice. "Potter – stop this this instant!" No effect. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for your foolish emotionality, Potter, and if you don't stop this instant, it'll be fifty more!" he said loudly.

The boy moaned, but his yelling ceased, and he grabbed at the sheets as if attempting to control himself. Snape shook his head, amazed at the boy's control, even in his sleep. "Wake up, Potter," he said quietly but firmly. "You're having a dream. It's just a dream. Wake up. Come on, boy!" He held onto Potter's shoulders with one arm, shaking him slightly, his other hand working its way into the nearer of Potter's fists, trying to get him to let go of the sheets.

With a cry, the boy startled awake, looking about himself, wild-eyed, a final moan escaping before he clamped his lips shut, and his eyes onto Snape's face. A sighing sob shook him, and he gripped Snape's hand without awareness.

"Oh, gods!" Potter said. His grip was painful on Snape's hand and wrist, desperate and shaky. "I thought you were dead! Oh, gods! I thought you were dead!" His sob turned to frank tears, which he tried to stifle by holding his breath and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Potter! Look at me! Open your eyes! Shake the image! _Look at me!_" Snape ordered again. He tried to loose his hand from Potter's desperate grip, but the boy would not let go. He moved his hand from Potter's shoulders to his face, intending to force the boy's head up, and his eyes open, but Potter turned his face into Snape's palm, rubbing against it, as if seeking reassurance that Snape was real, and not some figment of his imagination.

Snape's breath caught in his throat, and he determinedly swallowed against the lump that formed there, his hand – automatically, it seemed – caressing Potter's cheek, wiping away his tears. It did not seem to help. If anything, the boy's tears increased, though he seemed to be quieting down. Sighing, Snape got off his knees with difficulty and nudged Potter's knees. The boy moved them enough for Snape to sit on the bed at his side, and then curled himself toward Snape, ending up with his head on one of Snape's knees. Snape hesitated, then patted the boy's back awkwardly, wishing for the life of him that the boy would stop his useless tears. It made Snape's head hurt and his chest ache, but he denied that he felt a bit like crying, himself.

After a while, the boy's tears turned to sniffles and then silence, but he did not move from where he had placed his head. Snape realized he had been rubbing the Potter's back, running his hand up and down the thin muscles, feeling the bones of the boy's spine, as if he were malnourished. He frowned and shook his head, paying more attention to what he was feeling. _Did the boy not eat? How could Minerva allow this?_ The boy felt half-starved, his ribs palpable under his t-shirt and thin muscles. His jaw clenched. _Was _no one_ taking care of the boy, after all he'd been through? Minerva and Poppy apparently saw him daily, for the love of Godric Gryffindor!_

His other hand was still held in Potter's, though the boy had relaxed his hold. Snape was suddenly acutely aware that he was sitting on a bed, with an 18 year old male rubbing his face into his leg. He stiffened slightly, apparently enough for Potter to feel. The boy pulled abruptly back, landing against the bare mattress, his head bouncing slightly. Snape winced, picturing the boy's brain sloshing around in his skull, no doubt re-injuring him. _He's going to have a headache_.

Potter pulled his hand out of Snape's grasp and turned his head away. Snape could see the slight blush on the boy's face only because it was such a contrast to his generally pale visage. There was an awkward silence.

"What are you doing here?" Potter asked quietly, distantly.

Snape frowned at his tone. "I was sent," he said curtly. "If you object, I shall report to the individual who sent me that he needn't interrupt my sleep to –"

"No! I mean… Sorry. I…"

Potter rolled to sit up, one arm brushing against Snape's. He pulled his knees up, brushing against Snape again as he did so. Snape held himself still, barely breathing, though why his breath should hitch at the slight contact, he did not know. Potter hugged his knees, his head down, and talked into them.

"I'm sorry… whoever it was woke you." He paused and looked up. "It was Salazar, wasn't it?" Snape didn't bother answering. Potter sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

"Does that hurt?"

"What? Oh – the scar. No. I just… I have a headache."

"I have observed that headaches often follow prolonged…"

The boy cut him off with a wave of his hand, apparently embarrassed. "Sorry," he said again. "I…"

_I'll set a Muffliato… I'll tell Salazar not to wake you… I'll cry more quietly… _Snape could see it on Potter's face, read it in his eyes. He didn't have to say anything.

Snape pulled the vial from the pocket of his robe. "You shouldn't be here alone," he said matter-of-factly as he worked the cork loose. "You need to be with people… have things to do other than sitting around contemplating your navel… be distracted from… from your… your memories."

"What do you care?" the boy accused bitterly, but quietly. He sounded hopeless… lost.

Snape closed his eyes against the surge of guilt and remorse in his chest. "I _care_, you bloody twit, because…" _Because you are alone… because you've been taking care of everyone but yourself… because no one should have to go through what you went through, let alone with so little support… let alone at your age… Because you… cared enough about me… to stay… to take care of me… to think ahead about what I needed…_

"I care because you are… my student," he finished somewhat lamely. The boy flashed him a look he could not decipher.

"I haven't been your student – _anyone's _student – in over a year, Se… sir."

Potter met his eyes then, and Snape shook his head at what he saw there. The boy's eyes looked… ancient… as old as Snape sometimes felt. He reached out and patted the… man's… knee. "You should get some sleep."

Potter shuddered. "I… I think I want to get up."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Even without a _Tempus_, I can tell it's the middle of the night, Potter. You're exhausted… and you've just had a nightmare that…" He shifted back toward the edge of the bed, "has left your mattress and blanket soaked and cold…" He looked at the bedside table, glanced at Potter, who watched him with a steady gaze, picked up the boy's wand, and waved a drying spell over the boy and his bedding, such as it was. He held the vial up in front of the boy's eyes, moving it back and forth so that the liquid inside was visible in the faint firelight. "Dreamless Sleep," he said by way of explanation. Potter shook his head. "I insist, Potter. Both of us need our sleep. And…" he sighed, "in the morning… we should talk."

Potter hesitated, but finally nodded, and held out his hand. He drained the vial, and handed it back to Snape, who corked it and stood. As he went to turn away, Potter made a move as if to reach for him, and he aborted his move, shifting to look around the room, waving the wand still in his hand to summon a hard desk chair. Setting it at the end of Potter's bed, he turned back to the boy.

"I may as well read a while, as you've woken me completely up," he observed. He tried for admonishment in tone, but it came out amused and worried. Potter's eyes widened, then he snorted and shook his head, lay down, and pulled his meager blanket over himself. Before Snape had time to blink twice, the boy was asleep. Snape observed him a moment, sighed, and looked around a second time. There were few things in the room, other than bed frames, desk chairs, and bookcases. A roll of parchment lay abandoned on one desk. He called it over, and transfigured it into a pillow, lifting the boy's head by magic, and tucking the pillow under it. He shook his head again as the boy shivered in his sleep, removed his robe, and tucked it around the sleeping… man… Then he left the room, in search of reading material.

The common room was nearly empty. Salazar Slytherin was back in his frame on the wall over a desk, eyeing Snape silently, as was his wont, unless he had some snide observation to make or Snape asked his input on something. His eyes shifted to the wand in Snape's hand, and Snape twitched it self-consciously, wondering why it fit his hand so well, when it was shorter and thicker than his own. It felt warm. He sighed. He knew what that should mean – that his energy and the boy… man's… _Potter's_ were compatible. But when had they _ever_ worked compatibly?

He pushed that thought away, ignored Slytherin's portrait, and looked about the room. It was virtually empty except for things that should be there over the summer – furniture, primarily, and a few Slytherin artifacts. There were two exceptions – a bit of parchment on the desk under Slytherin's portrait, and a book on the sofa. Dismissing the parchment, he strode to the sofa and picked up the book, raising his eyebrows at the title. _Rather esoteric reading, Potter_, he thought. _Far too advanced for someone of your intellect… _Or so he had thought, anyway. _What are you up to?_

He considered a moment, looking around the common room, aware that he would be more comfortable out here than in the dorm itself, no matter how cozy a chair he transfigured, but, remembering the boy's resistance to wakening mid-nightmare, he took the book back to where Potter lay, quiet now, under the influence of Dreamless Sleep. He flicked Potter's wand at the chair, turning it into something slightly more comfortable, and settled himself to read, wondering what had caught Potter's eye.

He ran his finger down the index, a corner of his mouth twitching in amused interest. _I'll have to check this out of the library when he's done with it_, he thought. His finger paused at _Magical Constructions, _itched to turn to _Sympathetic Magic, _then settled on _The Unique Case of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_. Surely that was what the boy had been reading. He turned to the first page of the chapter, and began to read.

…oooOOOooo…

Potter's restless movements pulled Snape out of his reading. He frowned. The boy should have slept for at least another two hours. He cast a _Tempus_ with the boy's wand. Six-thirty. He watched as the boy continued to move about, slowly coming awake. Potter stretched and frowned, likely discomfited by the thin mattress. He pulled the blanket and Snape's robe up to his neck, rubbing his face into the latter, inhaling deeply. One corner of Snape's mouth twitched upward as Potter's nose flared. Suddenly, the boy started, gave a wordless cry, and jerked fully awake, his eyes opening in near panic, meeting Snape's amused gaze. The boy looked down at Snape's robe, shoved it down and off of himself, then grabbed it back up to pull around his waist, when he remembered he was in his underthings. Snape pushed down his amusement with difficulty.

"Awake, are you? A bit early, don't you think? Very well, then. Take your bath – yes, a bath, Potter! You were covered in sweat last night! Then dress and meet me… in my quarters. You have half of an hour. Don't be late."

Without giving the boy time to object or reply, Snape stood, placed the book on the nightstand with Potter's wand atop it, turned, and swept from the room. Salazar's gaze followed him to the door.

The thickened spot in the corridor caught at him again, reminding him of the boline at his waist, but he pushed through easily enough, muttered the password at his door, lips twitching again, and set about readying himself for the day. Twenty-three minutes later, he left his bedroom and stopped short. Potter was standing uncertainly just inside his door. They stared at each other, and to Snape's satisfaction, Potter pulled his eyes away first, gesturing toward the door. "I… it… it opened when I got here. I thought you…" He faded to a halt, glancing back at Snape.

Snape chose to say nothing, just let the boy assume what he would… Why had the ward not kept the boy out, though? _I'll have to change the password. _He maintained a silence as he stepped toward the boy, who flinched slightly and pulled back. He reached past him to snag his robe from a hook by the door, smirking at the relieved look on Potter's face, though it was followed swiftly by something else that he could not decipher. He threw his robe over his shoulders, keeping a curious eye on the boy, and noting again the changes in the boy since he had last had time to study him, better than a year past.

He was just a hair taller, no more, and pathetically thin, as if food had been scarce while he and his friends had been on the run – which it likely had been. He looked… stronger, nonetheless, as if he had been honed to razor sharpness. His cheekbones were more prominent, his jaw stronger, as if he'd built muscle by clenching his jaw repeatedly. His eyes were… exhausted… and perhaps grief-stricken, though that could have been Snape's imagination. His hands were stronger, scarred… no longer a boy's hands, but the hands of a man who had seen hard labor. His shoulders were stooped in… pain, or grief, or tiredness.

Snape's heart clenched. _No eighteen year-old should look thus_… as if he'd borne the weight of the world on his shoulders and was world-weary. But… that's exactly what Potter had done – at least since he'd turned eleven. Something sad and tearful tried to worm its way out of Snape's chest, but he fought against it and beat it down. Now was not the time.

"Come," he said, and his voice was… nearly kind. "Breakfast – in the Great Hall, or Minerva will, no doubt, come and scold us. Better not give her a reason." He smiled slightly, and Potter looked as if he nearly would come to tears at that. Snape turned away – for both their sakes.

…oooOOOooo…

They entered the Great Hall in step, having made their way through the tunnel from the dungeons, up the stairs, and across the main hall without talking. Snape pondered the things he needed to ask about, the things that demanded to be said, but that he could not wrap his mind around saying. He made a mental list, wincing inwardly on some of the items. _After breakfast_, he thought. _After meeting with Shacklebolt… after I get my wand back. _It was defensive, he knew, but he had no intention of doing a damned thing more, without his wand in hand.

Shacklebolt had already arrived, he was glad to see. He was seated next to McGonagall, listening to something Flitwick was saying, across the table from him, and nodding. McGonagall noticed them walk in, her eyes flicking from him to Potter and back. She nodded reassuringly. Snape sat next to Flitwick, seeing as the man charmed a portion of the bench into a chair for him again, without even looking. _Why don't they just leave it that way?_ Potter took up his usual seat at Snape's right, caught Shacklebolt's eye, and said, "Good morning, Minister."

"Mr. Potter," Shacklebolt said, "Finally ready to leave Hogwarts, then?" His eyes shifted to Snape's, and he nodded in greeting.

Snape hesitated before nodding back. "Minister."

"We've known each other too long for that, Severus. 'Kingsley' will do as well now as it ever did – unless we're at some Ministry function."

_It couldn't be too bad, then, if he's allowing first names. _

Snape did not miss that Potter had not answered Shacklebolt's question. He shot the boy an enquiring look out of the corner of his eye. Potter pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. Snape considered him a moment, nodded minutely, and caught the boy's relief before he turned back to the table. He dished himself up some breakfast, catching Minerva just before she did so, forbidding it with a glare. She smiled slightly, and pulled her hand away from the dish she was about to serve him from. He turned to look at Potter, who was sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, narrowed his eyes at the boy, and dished him equal servings of everything he served himself – and twice the rashers of bacon. While the boy did not stop him, nor did he even pretend to eat.

Snape leaned slightly in Potter's direction, waited until Shacklebolt was engaged in responding to Flitwick again, and murmured, "You will eat, Potter, or I shall take it out in points from Gryffindor, with or without your presence!" The boy huffed and glared at him, but sat up straighter in his chair, and began to half-heartedly shovel food into his mouth.

Breakfast passed in deceptively casual conversation that Snape was uncomfortably aware was a test of sorts. Shacklebolt was assessing his readiness to have his wand returned, and Snape irritably concluded that the Minister had somehow formed the impression that Snape was emotionally unbalanced. He'd have sworn at the man's constant probing, were it not for his fear that it would prove the suspicion right, and cause a delay in the return of _his damned wand!_ As it was, he constantly bit his tongue, afraid to make even his usual biting remarks. Finally, Minerva stood, and said, "If you gentlemen would join me in my office…" Her nod included Snape, Shacklebolt, and, for some reason, Potter, who immediately put down his serviette and stood, waiting for Snape to do so as well.

Shacklebolt contrived to walk next to Snape on the way to Minerva's office; Potter nearly trod on his heels, trying to listen in on their discussion. Snape was tempted to cast a wandless hex at the boy, but refrained. Shacklebolt commented on the state of repairs as they walked. "The castle was badly damaged in the battle."

"So it seems. Not unexpected," Snape replied.

"Voldemort spared no effort to get at Potter."

Potter choked behind them. Snape pretended to take no notice. "As he would have." He hesitated. "He was a desperate man, in the end."

"Fortunately for us, he was just a man."

Snape nodded silently.

"Were it not for Potter, I doubt any of us would have survived – unless we'd gone over to his side."

"Ah yes - Potter, _The Chosen One_," Snape sneered before he caught himself. He closed his eyes momentarily. _Bloody fool! Attack their hero, and you'll be lucky not to see the inside of Azkaban – permanently! _There was a huff and a muffled laugh from behind him. Unexpectedly, Shacklebolt, next to him, relaxed, and Snape realized just how _on guard_ the man had been.

Shacklebolt changed subjects, and the rest of the walk to McGonagall's quarters was spent on updates on what was happening elsewhere in the wizarding world, including the search for errant Death Eaters and Snatchers.

"I can help you, there, perhaps. Who is still unaccounted for?"

"As we don't have a full list, we're not completely sure. Might you…?"

"Of course, Minister. When would you like me to appear?"

"No need for anything formal, Severus. We can go over it at your convenience, though sooner is better, of course. They've already had too long to go to ground."

"Of course, Minister."

"Kingsley."

Snape nodded.

The group reached the gargoyles guarding McGonagall's office, and Snape irritably recalled that he had no passwords for those places he commonly accessed. "Tartan Pumpernickel," Minerva said, without pausing in her stride. The gargoyles leapt aside with a crunch, returning to their posts as soon as the four of them stepped onto the spiral stair.

Arriving in the Headmistress' office, Shacklebolt looked at McGonagall, who nodded. He seated himself behind her desk. McGonagall stood at his side and gestured. "Take a seat, gentlemen," she said to him and Potter. Potter shot him a confused look. Snape looked back coolly and seated himself in the wingback chair in front of the desk, propped his elbows on the arms, and tented his fingers in front of his chest, his usual calming pose. Potter took up the other chair, and kept looking at Snape nervously, for some reason.

"How are you feeling, Severus?" Shacklebolt asked.

"I'm fine. How are you, Minister?" he drawled.

"Kingsley. And I'm fine." The ghost of a smile crossed Kingsley's face. "But I'm not the one whose been comatose for the past three months… with snake venom coursing through my veins."

_Ah._ "I assure you – _Kingsley_ – that I am quite fine."

"Pomfrey tells us you are likely to have some problems with…"

"I'm quite aware that I am expected to have some temporary lingering effects of the venom, but I assure you, I am quite capable… _quite _capable… of managing them."

Kingsley withdrew a box from the inner pocket of his robe, opened it, and flipped back the velvet covering. Snape did not need to look to know what the box contained. Kingsley plucked the long, ebony wand from its nest, held it by the tip and end, and spun it idly in his hands. He looked at Potter, who looked back at him blankly. Then the boy's face changed as, apparently, the other shoe dropped, and he hesitantly looked at Snape. Snape knew he was thinking about Snape throwing him out of his quarters… dragging him from the library. _Would the boy scuttle his chances of regaining his wand? _He met Potter's gaze calmly. He'd earned a delay, he knew, and wrestled with himself to accept that inevitable outcome. But Potter's face changed again, to something indecipherable, and he turned to the Minister.

"Professor Snape has been… supportive. He helped me with a nightmare last night. I… appreciated it."

Kingsley nodded, and Minerva smiled slightly. He looked at Potter a moment, then turned back to Snape. "Arthur and Molly wanted me to pass on an invitation to dinner tonight," he said, watching Snape closely.

_Weasley…_

_He was flying, the broom beneath him not nearly fast enough for his need. Desperation had him pulling on it harder than necessary, harder than useful. He could lose everything in the next few minutes. The wizarding world hung on his ability to help Potter escape the trap that _his information_ had helped the Dark Lord set for the boy, so close to his seventeenth birthday. Potter would die if Snape failed… and he, Snape, may well die if he succeeded in diverting the efforts of the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself… if he were discovered…_

_Two persons – Lupin and one of the decoys – he could tell by the way the person sat their broom that it was not Potter – rose up through the circle of Death Eaters surrounding the general location in Little Whinging in which the Dursley household was known to be located. A Death Eater to Snape's left gave chase, Voldemort flicked a hand in command, and Snape followed, reluctantly. If only he could tell which was the real Potter… _

At least I can save this one… get back to the others_, he thought. The Death Eater flung curse after curse at the fleeing pair, who dodged and flung back curses with varying shades of expertise. The decoy was not as experienced as Lupin, of course. A stinging hex hit the hand with which the Death Eater clung to his broom, and he cursed loudly. He drew his arm back in a familiar move, and Snape knew he was readying the Avada Kedavra. Terror drove him, and he raised his own arm, aiming at the Death Eater's back. _Sectumsempra! _he shouted, but the Death Eater swerved just at the wrong moment, and the curse passed him up, hitting the decoy. _NO!

_He'd thought he'd killed the witch or wizard… blood had spurted from… somewhere… he'd thought it a direct hit, and, as he was the only one who knew the countercurse, the decoy was doomed. _NO! _he yelled again, grief and rage filling him. The Death Eater looked back at him in angry confusion. _What the hell, Severus? _he called. _He belongs to the Dark Lord! _Snape said, thinking quickly. _Or did you not understand our master's orders? Perhaps you would like to report that I prevented you from killing the boy in his stead? _He sneered in what he_ _hoped was a convincing matter. _No. No, you're right, of course, Severus. Thank you. We… we need not mention this… right?

_He'd found out later that the decoy had been George Weasley… and that he'd lived, but lost an ear… and a lot of blood. The Weasleys had one more reason – as if they didn't have enough already – to hate him._

Snape pulled out of recollection with difficulty, to find the others all looking at him with varying degrees of concern, his hands clenched so tightly on the arms of the chair that his wrists ached and his fingers were white. Potter's hand was half raised toward him, and McGonagall looked sympathetic. Kingsley's look was… unconcerned… professional… dispassionate – until Snape looked in his eyes and saw the warm concern and support there.

Snape cleared his throat. "Please tender my regrets, Minister. I'm afraid I have other plans for the night."

Kingsley turned to Potter. "The invitation was for both of you."

Potter paled and opened his mouth several times, _looking rather like a fish_, Snape thought irrelevantly. He shrank in on himself, his face went blank, and his eyes darkened. "I… I c…ca… I can't," he stuttered.

"This is not an option, Potter. I'm afraid I must insist," Kingsley said. "George Weasley would like to speak with the both of you, and…"

Snape frowned at him angrily. _Why on earth… Can't he see the boy is not able? _He turned back to Potter, who, if anything, had turned even whiter.

"No. I can't. You don't understand, I can't…" the boy said, panic in his voice. He raised his hands in a warding-off gesture, defending himself against some attack. "I can't. Please… please don't make me…"

If he could have, Snape was sure the boy would have backed right through the stuffing of the chair in his attempt to get away. As it was, Potter pushed himself jerkily to his feet and began heading toward the door, as if escaping the fires of hell. McGonagall murmured a word, and the door refused to budge when he reached it. He jerked at the handle, and turned toward, not McGonagall, but Snape.

"Please," he said. "Please… I can't…" Tears were coursing down his face, and he was shaking.

"What the hell, Kingsley?" Snape snarled at the man, throwing him an angry look. It would cost him his wand, for the moment, he knew, but this was… unconscionable. _Didn't they see that Potter was distressed? The grief and pain and guilt was as plain as… as the nose on Snape's face. _Without really intending to, he strode to Potter's side.

The boy clutched at his arms, looking at him pleadingly, heartbreak, fear, grief and sadness evident in every inch of his being. "Please," he sobbed out again, grasping at Snape in his need.

Snape put a supporting hand on the boy's shoulder, and Potter turned into him, burying himself against Snape's chest. He was shaking – his entire body was shaking, not just with sobs, but in fear. Snape pushed anger aside and grabbed onto the boy before he could collapse, wrapped his arms around him to steady and reassure him, and held him tightly.

"_Damn it, Kingsley!_" he said angrily, and then modulated his tone. "It's alright, Potter." _He was going to lose his wand for this, he just knew it. _"It's alright. I won't let them. You don't have to do this alone. I'll… I'll come with you. Shh… shh… it will be alright. I'll protect you." He was unaware of the tears streaming down his face as he held the boy, swaying back and forth, rocking him slightly in his arms. _Dear god, hasn't he been through enough? _He kissed the top of the boy's head without even knowing he did so, and held onto the sobbing boy until that resolved into sniffles. The boy stiffened slightly in his arms. He tightened his arms once in reassurance, and then let the boy go, pushing him slightly away, saying, "You'll owe me some clean laundry, Potter. I expect you to take care of it this evening."

Potter hiccuped and rubbed at his face. When he went to turn away, Snape took one of his arms and turned the boy back to him. "There's nothing wrong with tears of grief, Mr. Potter. Only a fool would deny them." He held onto the boy until he met his eyes and nodded. "As I said, I… will accompany you to the Weasleys… Perhaps we can get through this… together."

After a moment, Potter nodded, and his eyes filled again, overflowing, tears running down his face.

"Calm yourself, Potter, or do you require a potion?"

The boy shook his head.

"Very well."

He turned them back toward McGonagall's desk, fully expecting to see disapproval and denial.

"The hexes and jinxes in the dungeons, Severus?" McGonagall said calmly, though approval shone in her eyes. "You'll need your wand."

Shacklebolt held the wand out toward him, hilt first. Snape took one look at Potter, who was still trying to master himself, strode back to the desk and glared at Shacklebolt. "Bastard," he said.

Shacklebolt nodded. "The invitation stands, Severus. Tonight. However…" and McGonagall interrupted.

"There is no shame in _feeling_, Severus. It's only your ability to respond appropriately that was in question. I'd say…" and here she looked at Potter, "that your reaction was entirely appropriate, wouldn't you, Minister?"

"I agree," Shacklebolt said simply, still holding the wand out toward Snape.

He took it, feeling immediately grounded, immediately more _himself_, somehow, as if some essential part of his being had been returned to him. He glared at Shacklebolt and then McGonagall. "If you _ever_ use Potter to get to me again, I'll hex you both into oblivion. _Is that understood?_"

Minerva nodded, amusement and regret in her eyes, and Shacklebolt said, "Understood." He nodded at Harry – Snape did not even realize he'd thought of the boy using his first name – and said, "My apologies, Mr. Potter. The invitation was real, and I thought it might help us assess if Severus was ready… However, I assure you, I will never resort to such tactics again."

Potter said nothing. Snape did not blame him. "Come, Potter," he said. "We have work to do."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The boy continued to sniffle and wipe at his eyes as the spiral stair took them down to the gargoyles guarding McGonagall's office. Snape ignored it as best he could, following after the boy, stuffing down worry and anger in favor of the practical task of getting Potter back on solid footing. _Foolish, emotional Gryffindor!_ he thought, conveniently forgetting his own emotionality of moments earlier. He steered the boy toward the stairs to Slytherin quarters.

"Let us see what dangers lie in wait for the Slytherins – other than the trap you laid."

Potter turned to look at him in perplexity, then scrambled to catch up when Snape continued past him. Snape paused at the bottom of the stairs, the start of the tunnel under the Black Lake, and turned to look at Potter, who had almost run into him at his sudden stop.

"McGonagall said you have an unusual ability to sense traps and hexes," he drawled, eyeing the boy skeptically. "So – what do you sense, Potter?"

The boy frowned at him, then shrugged and turned toward the corridor. He moved to his right, closer to the tunnel wall, and trailed a hand along the wall a moment. Glancing at Snape over his shoulder, he turned to face the wall, placed both hands against it, and leaned in until his forehead touched it, moving closer until he practically melded with the wall itself. He gave a sigh and seemed to sink even further into it. Had Snape never been Headmaster, he might have worried that the castle was ensnaring the boy, but something about Potter's process pulled at him familiarly, reminding him of nights spent stalking the halls and ending up in strange places he'd never encountered within the castle before, as if the castle had been leading him. He crossed his arms and let the fingers of his right hand touch his wand, ready to draw it if Potter managed, yet again, to get himself in trouble, and watched.

After a few moments, Potter inhaled deeply, sighed, and pushed off the wall, turning to Snape with a slight blush on his cheeks. Snape had the irrelevant thought that it made the boy appear healthier… and oddly appealing.

"Nothing here, Professor, but further on…" He waved a hand toward the corridor.

_Deeper, then. _ Snape nodded and gestured an _after you. _Potter hesitated a moment, then turned to lead them further into the tunnel, one hand reaching toward, but not touching, the stones that created the very foundation of the castle. Snape followed, watching the boy curiously, and casting about with his own senses. Some bit of the connection he had forged with the castle when he was Headmaster remained, he could tell. Maybe all of it, he realized as he tested it further. He could almost feel her breathe, as if she was alive, could sense the life within her – not just the castle itself, but the lives of those who dwelt and worked within. His head tilted to one side as he considered the boy – the man – in front of him.

That connection automatically accrued to those the castle accepted as Headmaster or Headmistress – something that had never occurred with Umbridge, he had been satisfied to realize, once that connection had been forged between him and the castle. Else, the tricks and traps and hexes that abounded during her unfortunate attempt at leadership would never have worked, the castle's loyalty to its accepted leader preventing such anarchy. Instead, the castle never wavered in its loyalty to Dumbledore, as he must have known, and from that, to Snape himself. He didn't think that connection should remain, and wondered if the castle had switched its loyalty to Minerva. _I'll have to do something about that_, he thought, but what exactly he could do to convince the school to be loyal to her if it chose not to, he didn't know.

Why did that connection seem to have developed with Potter? _Because he's her Defender_, he thought. And though the thought of some uniqueness accruing to Potter _yet again_ should have rankled, it did not.

Potter caught the feel of the trap ahead of them before Snape, paused, and turned slightly toward him. "There," he said, gesturing to the door to the Potions classroom. Snape nodded. _Expected._

"Can you tell what it is?"

Potter hesitated once again, and looked at Snape uncertainly. Snape merely looked back without expression, then nodded, keeping his impatience off his face as best he could. The boy twisted his shoulders uncomfortably, looked away, considered and rejected the wall of the corridor next to the door, and closed his eyes, his face in profile to Snape. Snape nodded in approval that the boy did not see as he seemed to settle into the stone floor, to anchor himself to it. He allowed _himself_ to feel that connection then, seeking the join between floor and wall, feeling his way toward the door.

Before he got there, though, the boy arrived. He stiffened, gave a cry, and would have fallen, had Snape not snapped his eyes open, taken two long steps, and grabbed him around the chest as he started to fall, clutching the boy's back to his own chest. Potter's head lolled limply back into Snape's shoulder, and his eyes rolled back into his head. Cursing, Snape lowered him to the floor and knelt next to him, feeling for a pulse, checking his breathing.

"Damn it, Potter!" he muttered, though his heart raced in alarm. He calmed himself, drew his wand down the length of Potter's limp, slight body, and murmured, "_Rennervate!"_ He was rewarded, after a few moments, with Potter stirring slightly, shaking his head, and opening his eyes, startled to see Snape bending over him.

"What…?" he began, as he started to push himself to a sitting position. Snape pushed back at his shoulders, pinning him to the floor, and the boy squirmed uncomfortably. "I'm all right. I can sit up. What happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. You were seeking the nature of the curse on the Potions classroom door…"

"Oh. Yeah." Potter glanced at the offending door, and looked hastily away. "It's set to kill," he said bluntly. "If we'd touched it, we'd be dead."

"Was it set to key off of anyone in particular?" Snape asked, striving for a neutral tone.

"No. Anyone would have triggered it. Good thing you didn't decide to brew something this morning, yeah?"

"Indeed," Snape said dryly. "Can you get up?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. Th… thanks. You know. For…"

Snape nodded. "No need. Up with you. Let's see how to counter this curse."

They tried _Finite Incantatum_, to no effect, but Snape had not expected it to be that easy. Unlike the simple tricks the students played on each other, this curse was complex and advanced. Besides, he doubted even the Slytherins would have set killing curses. He glanced at the boy. "Do you know how to identify the magical signature of the caster of a spell?"

The boy frowned. "I've never thought about it. Dumbledore said something about magic leaving traces… Does it have to do with that?"

"Yes. Every witch and wizard uses magic slightly differently – akin to handwriting, in a way. And just as you can learn to identify the handwriting of a person whose writing you have seen before, you can learn to identify the caster of a spell, if you've seen them cast before. I shall attempt to identify the caster of this curse. That may aid us in dismantling the spell."

"Why?"

"Because if you know how the caster works, you can typically unravel their spell. It is akin to tracing their handwriting backward and returning the ink to the quill with which it was written… or like unraveling some of Molly Weasley's infernal knitting." Snape's lips twitched at that last, and Potter grinned. _Good. Better._

"I think I've got that," the boy said.

"Fine. Let me…"

Snape turned toward the wall, but the boy put out a hand to stop him. "Not too close, Professor. It turns deadly just here." He pointed to a spot just to the right of the arch into which the door was set. Snape nodded, impressed with the precision of the boy's sensitivity.

He cast out with his senses, allowing his hand to touch the wall well away from the spot Potter had indicated as dangerous, vaguely aware of Potter following along, his magic trailing after Snape's own as, together, they approached the door. He halted at the very edges of the trail of the spell, nearing it tentatively, feeling it, the bitter, copper taste of it filling his mouth. After a moment, he pulled back, pushing back at Potter's own magic. The boy allowed it, some part of him noted.

"Carrow," they said simultaneously, as they pulled away from the connection with the castle. "Yes," Snape confirmed, "Amycus." He tilted his head, considering the wall in front of them. "He's crude in his work, not terribly refined. It should be simple to unravel the curse – his repertoire of spells is small, and his methods are repetitive and unvaried.

"Let me…" Potter began, but Snape cut him off.

"I think not, Mr. Potter." There was a brief contest of wills, fought only in fierce glares, before Potter looked away, conceding defeat. Snape nodded, once. "You will observe. Observe _only_, Potter, or I shall spell your fingers together. Do you understand me?"

The boy muttered something Snape did not bother to make out. Instead, he turned his attention to the wall again, touching it briefly with his hand, invoking his connection with the castle.

It took a sweaty seventeen minutes to unravel the spell, and another seven or so to counter it and test the door for safety, before Snape allowed Potter to quest further, accompanying the younger wizard at a distance, in case the boy needed rescue again. Apparently, Amycus had been rather busy in the Potions classroom, whether because he took offense at the latest Potions instructor, or whether he suspected Snape would come down here to poke around in his old laboratory. In any case, no fewer than twenty-three hexes and traps had been laid in the classroom, several complex ones on the Potions cabinet itself. After dismantling one particularly nasty stinging hex, he noted that Potter was pale and shaking, and called a halt.

"That's enough, Potter. We shall continue tomorrow." The boy raised his head in protest, but his eyes were as weary as his shoulders, Snape noted. "Enough," he insisted, gesturing for the boy to lower his wand. Potter did so, unspoken gratitude and relief in his eyes.

They left the Potions classroom together, and turned to the right, toward Snape's quarters and the Slytherin dorm. Potter continued on, head down, oblivious to the fact that Snape had stopped at his door. "Potter," Snape called. The boy stopped and turned around, not even bothering with a verbal reply in his exhaustion. Snape gestured at him, and turned toward his door.

"Half-blood prince," Snape muttered, making a face. _I'll have to change that._

Potter followed him in, then stopped abruptly, looking sick, as his eyes flicked frantically around Snape's study.

"Sit down," Snape said, gesturing in the direction of the sofa. Potter fell onto the sofa and dropped his head into his hands, shaking it in small, jerky movements. Snape rolled his eyes and went through his bedroom to the loo, shedding his outer robe as he went, flinging it onto his bed.

When he came out, Potter was standing behind his desk, searching frantically through stacks of papers and books. Snape leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he watched the boy. "Missing something?" he drawled.

The boy jumped and snatched his hands back from the papers he was setting aside, as if he'd been looking beneath them. "Ah… I… I left a book here. I was just looking…"

Snape controlled an automatic sneer with difficulty. Potter was looking for his journal, no doubt, in which he had revealed… too much. Too much for Snape to torment him with, in any case, particularly as it would likely be uncomfortable – for both of them, if Potter knew he'd been reading. He pinned Potter in place with a look, and turned back to his room. The journal lay on his nightstand again. He pondered it a moment, considering, then took out his wand and waved it over the book in a flattened figure-eight, murmuring softly, "_Gemino. Duplicare in infinitum._" A twin of the journal appeared, and he picked it up and flipped pages, nodding his head in satisfaction, then placed it back on his nightstand. He waved his wand again, and the duplicate shimmered and disappeared. Picking up the original, he left his room.

Potter paled and froze when he saw what was in Snape's hand.

"Oh, sit down and stop gulping like a fish, Potter! I have better things to do than peruse the no-doubt highly entertaining meanderings of a teenage boy's mind!" He thrust the journal into Potter's chest, and the boy grabbed at it before it fell, his face shifting from colorless to scarlet. Snape shook his head and turned away. "Tatters!" he called, and a house elf cracked into appearance, bowed low enough for its nose to touch Snape's boots, straightened, and said, "Yes, Headmaster?"

"I am no longer the Headmaster, Tatters. Minerva McGonagall has that pleasant duty. See to it that you address her appropriately!"

"Yes, Headmaster. What is it that the Headmaster wishes, Headmaster?" The elf's eyes slid to the sofa, where Potter sat, book in hand, shaking in exhaustion or fear or both. The elf returned his – or was it a her? Snape wasn't sure. – gaze to Snape.

"Tea. And soup. For two."

"Yes, Headmaster." The elf winked out of existence with a crack of displaced air, and Snape frowned. That shouldn't be happening. The castle's allegiance should have passed over to Minerva, along with the title. He did not – most emphatically did _not_ – wish to be Headmaster any longer!

Stifling a shudder at the thought, he turned his attention to the boy on his sofa, who stared, unseeing, at the rug in front of him, oblivious to Snape's scrutiny. Snape waved a hand, and a small table appeared in front of the boy. Another wave summoned parchment, ink, and quill. "Write," he commanded when the boy looked up.

Potter clenched his journal tightly, protectively.

"Not in your journal. Use the parchment. List the hexes, curses, and jinxes we have found so far, their locations, the identity of their casters, and the method used to dismantle them."

"I didn't dismantle them – you did."

"And did you, or did you not, follow the process, Potter? I assume you paid attention, as I have spent far too much of my life saving your sorry arse for you to be inattentive to countercurses and spells used in your presence. Now write. The Headmistress will need a full accounting of our work – as will the Ministry, I imagine. I have other things to do."

Potter huffed in protest, blowing his fringe out of his eyes, the longer length framing his face now, softening the sharp angles caused by the malnourishment he must have suffered in the past year. Nevertheless, he picked up the quill and pulled the parchment to him. Snape watched while the boy collected himself and began his scratching.

Nodding to himself, Snape went to his private lab to inventory the stock of potion ingredients, cataloging those things he – and Potter – most likely needed. A range of restoratives. Draught of Dreamless Sleep. Muscle relaxer. Feverfew potion. Hesitating just a moment, he added potions to counter the effects of the _Cruciatus _curse, and nerve damage from extended exposure. _There are still Death Eaters at large… _The standard stock of potions for students would have to be supplemented, he supposed, to counter nightmares, shock, emotional distress, and other after-effects of trauma. The castle would trigger these, he knew from experience, flinching at the very thought of ascending the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

A crack announced Tatters' reappearance in the other room. He left his lab and waved toward the table at the far end of the study. The elf bowed under the heavily-laden tray, managing not to spill a single drop of soup. "Thank you," Snape murmured, and looked up to see a look of incredulity on Potter's face. He shook off his irritation. "Come here, Potter." The boy looked from him to the steaming bowls of soup. Snape snarled, "I did not bring you here to poison you, you twit! You're exhausted, and you've used more magic than prudent, given what you've been through. You need to eat. Now, _come here_!"

The boy capped the inkwell and stood, wiping his hands on his denims, which pulled them tight against his legs and… Snape looked away and poured tea into two cups, sat, and pulled a bowl of soup toward him, leaning over it and inhaling the steam, grateful that the curtain of hair hid him from the boy… or visa versa.

…oooOOOooo…

Harry looked at the professor, then back at the parchment he'd been working on. His journal lay precariously near the still-wet ink of the last item on his list. Chancing a glance at the professor, who was apparently intent on his soup, he picked up the journal and slipped it into the back pocket of his denims. He hesitated, then left his wand on the small table and went to join Snape.

They ate without exchanging a word. Snape finished before him, leaving Harry feeling awkward as his spoon scraped against the bottom of his bowl. He kept his head down, grateful that his longer hair hid him from the man. Finally, though, he was finished and had no choice but to look up, surprising a considering, curious look on Snape's face.

"What?"

Snape's eyes never left his face, and Harry wondered if the man was Legilimizing him. He shrugged slightly. It didn't matter. Except for… As soon as he thought it, he felt himself blushing. _Don't go there! _he ordered himself uselessly. He fought to tear his eyes from Snape's, succeeding only by narrowing them first, frowning as if he was angry. But he was not. He wanted to… _Oh gods! _He wanted to throw himself into Snape's arms, or wrap his own arms around the man, and… But he could not finish that, not even to himself. He huddled miserably, tapping the soup bowl with his spoon, wishing he had not left his wand across the room, though what he could have done to defend himself – what he _would _have done to defend himself – he did not know. And… truthfully, what he needed to defend himself against was not _Snape_, but the things that circled uselessly in his mind.

He shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware of how close he was sitting to Snape, across the narrow table from him, imagined how close their knees were under the table, imagined he could feel the warmth emanating from the man… He shifted again, and one of his feet kicked lightly against the table leg, coming to rest on the foot of the trestle. No… _Oh, gods! _It was _Snape's_ _foot_ he'd kicked… and Snape's foot that _his_ was now resting on! He froze.

When he looked up, Snape looked like he was trying to control a smirk – unsuccessfully. "Worn out your own shoe leather and decided to use mine?" the man asked with carefully controlled mildness. His eyes glinted with something Harry could not decipher. Harry's mouth dropped open, but he could not remember what he was going to say – if he'd even intended to say anything at all. "Kindly remove your foot from mine," Snape said at last, and Harry jerked his foot away.

"S… sorry! I'm sorry! I thought it was the table leg…"

Snape refrained from replying with something scathing, but only just. "We'll have to continue in the Slytherin dorm tomorrow," he said after a moment, changing the subject out of some completely unexpected concern for the boy's comfort.

Potter looked relieved. "I didn't feel anything other than a couple of minor hexes in the 6th year dorm."

Snape nodded. "Nevertheless, we will inspect the rooms together, and venture further down the Slytherin hallway. I expect you to manage a decent breakfast – after a decent night's sleep. And until we have inspected the dorms together, I would prefer you not sleep there."

The boy turned his eyes to his soup bowl and played with his spoon. "There's not much place for me to sleep, though, other than that."

"I am aware. You need not review the status of the other dorms, nor the reason to avoid the workers. You will sleep here, on the sofa."

"Oh, but…"

"I insist, Potter. If I'm to be woken by Salazar to tend to your nightmares, I'd rather not have to venture into the corridor in my sleep robes."

"You don't have to –"

"Apparently I do, as you seem incapable of managing by yourself at this point in time."

"I've been _fine_!" the boy replied hotly. "I've been sitting up every night watching _you_ recover. I don't need any help!"

"And I say you do, Potter, and as I am your professor –"

"You are _not _my professor anymore! I am not your student! I am… I am…"

"Yes? You have another word for your status in this castle? Do go on…"

"I'm just…" Harry waved a hand at himself. "I'm just me. Just Harry. I'm… I'm just staying here until… until… until it's safe for me to go… I guess…" He looked unhappy at that, for some reason.

Snape smirked. "Exactly. Safe. Therefore, you will stay here, where I can assure that you are… _safe._ Now," he said, rising from the table and gesturing at it, making the dishes vanish, "I have some brewing to attend to. I expect you to finish your report for McGonagall." He paused. "Do not touch my things. And do not wander. I shall know if you do."

"Bathroom," Potter said sullenly, looking at the table rather than at him. Snape snorted, turned, and headed to his private lab.

After surreptitiously watching Snape leave the room, Harry pushed back his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and pulled the leather tie from it, wadded the bit of leather into a ball, and stuffed it into his pocket. He shrugged to loosen his tense shoulders, grimaced in recollection of having mistaken Snape's foot for the foot of the table, and headed to the bathroom. Once he finished his business, he stood in the doorway, looking into Snape's bedroom… the bedroom _he'd_ been using for weeks… months. For just a moment, a fleeting thought of laying down on the bed and allowing Snape to find him there passed through his mind, but that would be… incredibly stupid… dangerous, even. Sighing, he turned his back on the room and the image, and settled himself back on the sofa, drawing the parchment he'd been writing on toward him once again.

Snape finished brewing the batch of Dreamless Sleep, bottled it in rose-tinted crystal, corked the dozen bottles, and set them to one side. He cleaned the cauldron and replaced the ingredients on his shelves, appreciating the orderliness with which they were arranged before he caught himself, remembering that likely it was _Potter_ who had arranged them thus. He turned from that thought, checking his list of potions to brew, and deciding that the rest required long enough brewing time that it would be better to wait for the following day rather, than attempt to get them done this evening. He doused the lanterns with a wave of his wand, grabbed two vials of Dreamless Sleep, and left his lab.

Potter had fallen asleep, half-laying on the sofa, the parchment rolled up in front of him, his journal lying next to it. Ink was drying in an uncorked bottle, and Snape shook his head, and crossed the room to spell it closed. He frowned in disapproval. The quill would have to be re-cut before it was used again. Well, he'd leave Potter to that. He considered leaving the boy as he was, knowing he'd earn at least a sore neck, the way he was laying, but then he'd just have to dose the blasted boy with pain potion the next day… and truthfully, Potter had had enough of pain… and exhaustion. He really could not, in good conscience, leave him like this.

Eschewing magic, lest it inadvertently interact with whatever magic the boy had demonstrated throughout the day, his connection with the castle – or so he told himself, he bent over the boy to lift his legs and straighten him on the sofa. The almost-casual intimacy of the act struck him, and for a moment he froze. _What am I doing?_ His hands stilled on the boy's calves, and he became intensely aware of the wiry strength under his hands, the warmth of contact. His fingers tightened, whether inadvertently or in response to his awareness… his…

He blanked his mind, and focused only on doing the minimum to make the boy comfortable, his face reflecting wary caution, his pulse pounding in his wrists. _Don't wake up_, he silently ordered the sleeping man – _boy. _Potter shifted onto his side, curling his legs slightly, drawing one hand up to rest under his chin. Snape's eyes followed that movement, and caught on the chiseled features. _He really is too thin… _He needed a shave, the shadow of growth on his chin and cheeks a contrast to his pale face. Snape studied the face as if he'd never seen it before… _and perhaps I haven't_, he admitted. He went to turn away, then stopped at a slight draft coming down the flue in the fireplace. He hesitated, then _In for a feather, in for a Hippogryff_, he thought, and with a wry quirk of his lips, summoned a light throw and tossed it over the boy. He did not allow himself to notice the beauty of the boy's face, as he straightened the coverlet over the boy's shoulders. He didn't. His hand hovered for a moment, and then he pulled away, turning his eyes and his thoughts deliberately to his own room and his nightly ablutions.


	16. Chapter 16

**Never Done**  
**  
Chapter 16**

Snape startled awake in the darkened room, some sound shockingly interrupting the safety of his warded sanctuary. Reflexes from nineteen years of playing the double agent caused him to keep his eyes shut and his body still, as he cast his senses outward, testing for the source of the intrusion. The sound came again – a thumping accompanied by a moan. _Where…?_ But… his bed was soft beneath him, the coverlet warm over him, the scents reassuringly familiar. He was definitely in his private chambers in the dungeons. The moan came again, and memory and comprehension kicked back in. _Potter._

He flung the covers off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, swaying slightly as dizziness threatened his equilibrium. _Inhale. Take it slower. _What use was he going to be to the boy, if the mere act of getting out of bed, attaining vertical, threatened his stability? _Nagini venom. Damned snake! _He took a moment to balance himself, then rose and made his way to the other room.

Potter was thrashing about on the sofa – the source of the thumping sound – and moaning, fighting against something in his sleep. Even in the flickering, uneven light from the fireplace, Snape could see that the back of his right hand was abraded from its contact with the rough upholstery. Even as he watched, Potter lashed out as if to fight off some demon, his hand coming into contact again with the sofa, this time breaking through so that small drops of blood bloomed across his knuckles. If this was how Potter slept every night, it was a wonder he was uninjured every morning. The realization that the boy had probably – definitely – slept in the large, soft bed Snape had just left created a twinge of guilt that he did not have time for. He crossed to the sofa swiftly, and bent to shake the boy's shoulder. As luck would have it, the boy thrashed one more time, his left fist swinging up and out – until it caught Snape squarely in the nose.

Blood immediately gushed forth as Snape's head snapped back and his arm came up defensively. His startled oath was enough to pull the boy awake, and Potter sat up suddenly, nearly compounding Snape's injury by ramming into his jaw. Snape pulled back just in time, one hand already dripping with blood, the other reaching out to restrain Potter from a potential defensive attack.

"Damn it, Potter!"

"Professor?"

"Who did you _think _it was?"

"I… what are you doing here? I was sleeping. I… You're _bleeding!_"

"Of course I'm bleeding, you infernal brat! You cocked me in the nose with your bloody fist!" Snape had backed away from the sofa, up against one of the wing-backed chairs that sat to either side of the fireplace, hand to nose, and fell into it, feeling nauseous at the trickle of blood down his throat. His blasted wand was under his pillow. _Idiot!_

"Oh my God! I'm sorry! Here – let me…"

"_Don't _touch me, Potter!"

The boy recoiled, looked around, and grabbed his glasses and wand from the table where he had been working that evening. He shoved the glasses onto his face, and, raising his wand, not backing down at the glare Snape was giving him around his bloody fingers, flicked it in the other man's direction. "_Episkey!_" There was a quiet snick of bones snapping into place, against the pain of which Snape closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Harry winced. "Here – let me…" He stood and made to move off, but Snape's voice pinned him into place.

"Potter! _Sit down!_"

Harry ignored the order and rushed to Snape's bathroom, where he ran cold water over a cloth, wrung it out partway, grabbed a dry hand towel, and headed back to Snape's sitting room. The man was leaning back against the chair, head thrown back, eyes closed, looking pale. Blood covered the lower half of his face, smeared by his hand, which was hanging over the arm of the chair, slowly dripping blood onto the area rug beneath him. _Merlin, the man had lost a lot of blood in those few seconds! Must have high blood pressure or something… probably because he's so tall… it has to take a lot of pump pressure to get the blood up to his head. _Harry realized his mind was doing the equivalent of hysterical babbling, and tried to shut off his thoughts and focus on what needed to be done.

He knelt at Snape's side, and raised a hand to apply the cloth to Snape's face. Snape's blooded hand grabbed at his wrist, and he snatched the flannel from Harry's hand, opened pained eyes to glare at him, and held the cold cloth over his nose. A muffled groan came through his hands, and Harry winced. "Sorry, Professor," he said, settling back on his heels. Black eyes glared at him over bloodied fingers, before Snape closed them again.

Five minutes and two _Scourgifys _later, both of them paler than usual, they sat at a table sipping hot tea brought to them by a cheerful, wrinkled house elf, obviously elderly, who was apparently on duty in the kitchen overnight. Hiding behind his longer hair and the teacup he held in front of his face, Harry cast wary glances at Snape, waiting for him to tear the mickey out of him. Finally, he could stand the silence no more.

"I'm sorry." The words came out in a desperate whisper. Snape snorted.

"I am. I… I was asleep. I'm sorry. I –"

"There is no need… It's not your fault, Ha… Potter," Snape said tiredly. "You were having a nightmare, thrashing about in your sleep." He gave a wry smile. "I should have stayed out of range."

Harry gaped at him.

"Close your mouth," Snape commented – without even looking up, as far as Harry could tell. His voice held a touch of humor. "I _do _occasionally understand what lies behind a person's behavior – even yours."

Harry's lips twitched. "I'm sor… Uh…"

Snape sighed and stilled a moment, clearly restraining himself from his typical comment about Harry's lack of… eloquence. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Oh… ah… I… I don't remember," Harry lied.

Snape contemplated him over the rim of his teacup, one eyebrow raised challengingly. Harry averted his eyes. "I… it was… a lot of things, I think," he said. "A lot of things happened this past year."

He drew a hand over his forehead as if trying to banish the memories, and let out a long, slow breath. His hands shook, unresponsive to his efforts to control them. He put his teacup down, and it rattled against the saucer. He clenched his hands together under the table, hoping that Snape wouldn't see, and looked up to find the man watching him steadily, black eyes glinting with some emotion, teacup pressed to his lips as if to enforce silence. He did not look away, and Harry felt trapped, caught by Snape's stare, and winced, but he did not feel the man's mind probing at his; Snape did not attempt Legilimancy. After what felt like long minutes, he pulled his gaze away and sighed deeply again, his shoulders slumping in what might have been defeat… or relief.

"It is four o'clock in the morning, Potter. It is both too early to be up and too late to return to our beds." He put his teacup down and laced his fingers together over it. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

Harry looked up and met the man's eyes, incredulous that… that what? That Snape would be interested? That he'd want to know? That he'd… listen? His eyes filled with tears that he tried to dash away, but they stubbornly refused to be quelled, and before he could even begin to understand why, he was sobbing, his shoulders shaking with the weight of it – the fear, the loss, the burden, the uncertainty, the pain, the absolute terror of the last twelve months. He'd held it in so long, deferred his own grief and loss and reaction to… to the _whole _of it, for so long… for the eight months of hiding and _trying_ and starving and freezing and utter, utter loneliness and loss and terror… for the sharp, short exhilaration and terror of the battle itself… for Fred and Tonks and Remus… and Moody and Hedwig and Dobby… for the shock and sudden understanding… the knowledge that, for this to be over, truly over, _he must die_. For the heart-pounding _risk_… of coming back… For weeks of funerals and watching wounded friends recover – or not… facing families and the Ministry… for the exhausting weeks by Snape's side, hoping and despairing, the fear and shock that… that… _Oh gods! _That he loved and honored and respected and would never, _never _be worthy of the man he had reviled and hated for most of the last seven years…

It all came crashing down on him, and he found himself sobbing and gasping for breath, unable to breathe, and warm arms wrapped around him, and drew him to an equally warm chest, and he was held and rocked and petted and soothed, and a voice – _Snape's_ voice – was murmuring into his ear, "Shh… shh… It's all right. It's all over. You did well. I'm so proud of you. You did well."

…oooOOOooo…

Snape woke slowly, blinking in the light of the fire and the artificial sunlight that came from a painting charmed to reflect the view over the Black Lake. Kreacher was moving about slowly in his bedroom, flashes of towel visible through the doorway as he walked back and forth, apparently freshening the room. Some warm weight pinned Snape to the sofa, and he found it oddly comfortable, though it didn't shift with him when he went to stretch his legs and arms. His left hand fell onto…

_Oh._

_Potter._

The last few hours came back to him in a flash – his nose (better now), the boy's heart-breaking sobs… How they had come to be on the sofa, he did not recall, but he supposed he must have urged the boy to move from the hard chairs around his table, to the comfort of the sofa. He _did _recall Potter clinging to him, trembling… that it took long minutes, maybe more, before the shuddering sobs softened into sniffles and hiccups. He did remember holding the boy firmly against him, soothing his fingers through the long, soft hair, rubbing small circles on the boy's back, feeling his spine through his thin sleep shirt. He must have summoned a blanket at some point, or perhaps Kreacher had found them asleep like this and pulled up the blanket with which Snape had covered the boy, so much earlier in the evening.

His left hand still lay on the boy's hip. He had slid down, sometime in the early morning, so that his head lay in Snape's lap, his knees drawn up as he lay on his side, facing away from Snape now. Snape's right hand lay on Potter's head, tangled in the boy's hair. A wave of something… some feeling… squeezed through Snape's chest, and he fought down an urge to lift the boy against his chest again, and hold him there. He shook his head and smirked at himself. _You just cannot lay off protecting him, can you, Severus? _His right hand moved without conscious intent, soothing the boy in his sleep, fingers running through the boy's hair.

Some part of his anatomy twitched, and he froze, then snatched his hand away from Potter's head.

"Mmmm… don't stop. Feels good," the boy murmured.

Snape said nothing, holding his breath, hoping the boy was talking in his sleep. Potter stirred, and groaned as he stretched out his legs, simultaneously turning onto his back. Snape failed to move quickly enough, with the result that his left hand slid across the boy's hip and stomach as he turned, brushing against what could only be…

His anatomy twitched again, and he jerked his knee up to dislodge the warm weight from his lap. _Please don't let him have noticed! _he prayed frantically. He fought the impulse to dump the boy from his lap.

Potter startled fully awake, his eyes, unfocused without his glasses, opening straight into Snape's. He froze for a moment, then levered himself awkwardly to a sitting position, narrowly missing Snape's nose – _again_, managing to elbow Snape in his groin as he did so. Snape yelped and shoved him to a complete sitting position, bending forward slightly to protect himself from further harm, as well as to cover the surge of… of _energy_… that resulted from the brief contact. _Bloody hell! What was that? _He shot off the sofa and glared at Potter, summoned his wand, and cast a wordless _Tempus. _

"Breakfast in half an hour," he announced, turning quickly away from the… the… _boy_. "I trust you can wait to…" He halted uncertainly. "I will be in the bath. I… I shall only be ten minutes. _Don't touch anything_," he finished, in a vain attempt to recover some semblance of authority. He… fled… to his bathroom. There was no other word for it. What he was fleeing, exactly, he was not sure. _Why was he having this… this _reaction_ to the… to Potter?_

_Nagini venom. It must be affecting his endocrine system. Yes. That must be it. _He tried to work up an anger about it, but could not manage it, instead feeling some… _longing_. In fact, his… endocrine system… seemed to latch itself onto the memory of the last few hours, reviewing the feel of Potter in his arms, against his chest…

_Inappropriate!_

He growled at himself as he stripped and filled the bath with a wave of his hand, particularly when he realized he was having trouble quelling the rising swell of his cock. He groaned again as he sank into the warm water, desperately – and unsuccessfully – tried to clear his mind, and squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to touch himself. To no avail. Every move he made seemed to increase the pressure, until he finally gave up, gave in, and stroked himself, trying not to think about… what he was thinking about… which was primarily Potter's head in his lap, not ten minutes earlier.

His hand sped up as it squeezed and stroked his now-weeping cock. He flicked his fingers over his balls on each downstroke, drawing his legs up and apart slightly, his other hand finding and grazing his aching, quivering hole. His breath came faster, and he felt warmth spread up his chest to his face, grimacing in want and need. He shut his lips determinedly against the groan that wanted to escape as he found his release, but continued until he had milked every drop from his poor cock, as if making sure there would be nothing left to betray him later in the day.

_Merlin's bollocks! What was that about?_

_Normal. It's just a normal reaction to a return to health, that's all. _

But… the memory of Potter's head in his lap caused an unwanted twitch, and he cast an admonitory glare at his bits, grit his teeth, and emphatically turned his mind away from it all, distracting himself by reciting ingredients and the procedure for brewing amortentia. When he realized what he was mentally concocting, he flung the flannel down in disgust, rinsed the soap from his body and hair, and viciously toweled himself dry. By the time he dressed – in black, buttoned up entirely, including his ankle boots – he was outwardly calm. He would address the issue himself tonight. That is, if he got through the day without molesting the boy.

_No!_

…oooOOOooo…

"We have three more curses to undo in the dorms, then should inspect the corridor itself," he said, when Potter emerged from the bath, hair semi-controlled by dampness, fifteen minutes after the boy had entered his room. Potter nodded and walked to the table by the sofa, to collect his journal, his wand, and the list of spells and counter-spells he had made the night before. He weighed the journal in his hand, tapped it with his wand, and pocketed it. Snape raised his eyebrows. _Nonverbal shrinking spell… controlled. _The journal had shrunk to about half its size, rather than the miniature that usually resulted from such spells. Control of that sort took a tremendous level of concentration. He shook his head. Potter simply did not have that level of control. It must have been a fluke… or a weakly cast spell.

He noted that he did not really believe that.

Potter was turning in a circle, inspecting the side tables, the work table, and Snape's desk.

"Missing something?"

"No. Not really," Potter said absently. He folded the parchment and tucked it into his other pocket and looked up. "I'm ready for breakfast." There was no awkwardness in his look or tone, and Snape silently gave thanks that, apparently, he did not remember anything… awkward… about the early morning.

He narrowed his eyes at the chit. "Your readiness to consume some undoubtedly disgusting combination of comestibles that you will deem _breakfast _hardly concerns me… However, I will not have you in my quarters unsupervised. Come." He turned and strode to the door, stepping out to the corridor and waiting for Potter to leave. When he had, radiating enough rebellion and anger as he brushed past the older man to satisfy Snape's soul, Snape shut the door and warded it with his personal signature. He did not bother to change the password, given Potter was hovering at his elbow, instead whirling and stalking off, leaving Potter to follow in his wake.

"And how are you two progressing?" Minerva asked as they settled at the Ravenclaw table once more. Snape snapped his fingers at Potter and held out his hand, and the boy threw him a sullen look and pulled the parchment from his back pocket. "Your handwriting is as atrocious as ever, Potter," he drawled as he smoothed it out on the table between him and Minerva.

"Not many opportunities to practice my penmanship in the last year, _Professor_," Potter said, glaring at him from the seat nearly opposite Snape. Snape ignored him, though his stomach twitched guiltily.

"As you can see, Headmistress…"

McGonagall _tsk_'d irritably. He ignored that, as well.

"… there were several different spells used. All had Carrow's signature – Amycus Carrow." He flicked his eyes to Potter's side of the table, but the boy was busy chasing egg around his plate, though he appeared to be listening. "I – that is to say, _Potter _and I, both confirmed that only his signature was present in the curses on the Slytherin dorm." He drew a finger down the second column. It was complete and surprisingly exact. "Potter kept track of the counterspells required, as you can see." He glanced up to see Potter's face flushed. The corners of his mouth were lifting in a reluctant smile, though the boy kept his head directed at his plate. Snape rolled his eyes and continued, tapping his finger to direct Minerva's attention to the final three hexes. "We will continue with these three today, and then direct our attention to the Slytherin corridor. There is at least one active curse or hex there, and I suspect there may be more."

Minerva nodded as she looked over the list, her lips tightening into a thin line as she identified potentially deadly curses amongst the more nuisance hexes. She glanced up at Potter, then at Snape. "Dismantling these requires a tremendous amount of energy, Severus. Are you sure you and Potter…? Perhaps if Filius would consent to assist you…"

Snape shook his head, folding the parchment and placing it in his pocket. He drew the teapot to him and poured himself a cup, then began helping himself to a moderate breakfast. Potter was moving food around on his plate, more than actually _eating_ anything. "You _will _finish what is on your plate, Mr. Potter – as well as seeing Madam Pomfrey for a nutritional supplement. I will _not _have you depleting yourself and collapsing on me, as you did yesterday," he said, looking down the table to the mediwitch. She nodded approvingly. Potter looked up, his mouth opened in a protest that died when he saw McGonagall, Pomfrey, and Snape all looking at him in a united front. He shrugged and nodded.

"I'll want to see both of you before noon, Severus, Potter," the mediwitch said. Snape shut his eyes momentarily, to summon his patience - successfully, to his satisfaction – and nodded. _Perhaps he could ask her for something to quell his… sensitivity._ He began sorting through known libido-suppressing potions in his mind, but dismissed each of them immediately as not suitable, or as having unacceptable side-effects. His thoughts centered on this dilemma, he missed the next bits of conversation, and dragged himself back to the table when he realized Minerva was addressing a question Potter had asked.

"To the best of my knowledge, no other area of the castle has been plagued with curses, but it wouldn't hurt to check, Potter. That's a reasonable suggestion. If you and Severus could go through Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff first… Gryffindor is still not ready to be inhabited, and in fact, it is dangerous footing in that tower just now. I'm sorry to impose, but as the two of you are working so well together…" Here, she stopped and glared meaningfully at Snape, who twitched a shoulder in irritation. "I'll ask you to continue."

"Here, now," Flitwick protested. "I'd like to be present for that in the Ravenclaw dorms. No insult, Severus."

"None taken. I would appreciate the assistance." Snape smirked at Potter. "Someone who knows the dorms should accompany us in each of the Houses." He nodded at Pomona and Minerva.

"Potter is familiar with Gryffindor Tower," she pointed out.

"Someone with a bit more… knowledge," he clarified.

His attempt to needle Potter was wasted. The boy continued eating unconcernedly, occasionally flicking his eyes up to McGonagall or Snape as they talked, seemingly immune to Snape's indirect jabs. _Probably too thick to know when he was being slighted,_ Snape thought with a sneer. Potter _did_ react to the sneer, frowning at him as if trying to figure out what he'd done wrong, or perhaps whether Snape had swallowed a bug. Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy, and Potter mouthed at him, _What?_ When Snape did not reply, the boy shrugged and turned his head toward Flitwick, who had been trying to capture his attention.

Snape turned back to McGonagall, who had watched the interaction with eagle eyes. She thinned her lips in disapproval, but said nothing about it. "If you'll continue to keep track of any curses or hexes, however minor, and their casters, I'm sure Kingsley Shacklebolt would find it helpful."

Snape nodded. He would assign Potter the task of recorder, to keep him out of trouble, and out of the way. Besides, he admitted to himself, the boy had done an excellent job, given he had not been keeping record along the way. He allowed himself to take a longer look at the boy, sitting across from Flitwick, leaning forward, deep in discussion. He did not look much like a boy anymore, Snape admitted. Certainly, he was thin, and he would never be tall, but… his eyes were intent, his bearing purposeful, his gestures emphatic, precise, and confident… No, Potter was definitely no longer a boy. For some reason, this made Snape uncomfortable.

…oooOOOooo…

They jockeyed for position at the top of the stairs leading down to the dungeons after breakfast. Snape had vetoed Potter's suggestion they visit Poppy immediately, pointing out that unraveling the remaining three hexes would not take terribly long, but they would both be due for a break after the morning's work. Besides, he was concerned about how drained Potter had been the day before, and wanted Poppy to have a look at Potter after a bit of work, not before, when he was well-rested.

They walked the corridor, and reached that same odd spot, identifiable by the slight resistance as they pushed through it. Potter reflexively reached with his right hand, simultaneously pushing Snape back with some wordless spell and snatching something from the air, even before the sparkle warned Snape of the knife hurtling through the air. When the boy barely broke his stride, and merely tucked the knife under his belt at his left hip, Snape double-stepped to catch up, grabbed Potter by the shoulder and spun him around to face him.

"Just what the hell are you playing at, Potter? You will dismantle your ward _this instant_, or I shall drag you before the Headmistress for attempted murder!"

Potter looked up at him in confusion. "What? I didn't… You think I _planted _that?" He drew the knife from his belt, and Snape leapt back out of range of the sweep of the boy's arm. Potter looked hurt, and then angry. "I'm not about to knife you, you berk!" The fact that he was gesturing with the knife did not help his case.

"_Hand. That. To me... Now._" Snape said in a quiet, controlled tone that froze the boy where he stood. Moving with exquisite slowness and care, Potter turned the knife haft-out, and held it on his palm, stretching it out toward Snape, his wand hand held up, palm out, unmoving. Two swift steps and Snape snatched the knife from the boy's hand, and threw it down the corridor behind him, where it clattered, spun, and skittered for some six meters or so. He grabbed Potter by his wand arm, and shoved him, face-first, up against the stone wall, twisting his arm behind him tightly enough to draw a painful protest. Potter did not resist as Snape laid a forearm across the back of the boy's neck, forcing his face into the unforgiving stone, causing his glasses to skew, fall, bounce once off his shoulder, and hit the floor.

"_What. The hell. Are you playing at?_" Snape whispered viciously.

Potter choked and Snape backed the pressure off of his neck, keeping the boy's wand arm cocked up his back so that he was forced to his toes to alleviate the pressure. "I'm not doing anything!" he gasped. He shoved back slightly, and Snape added a knee to the pressure against him, bringing it up so that it held the boy's hips tightly to the wall, shoving in once, for emphasis.

"You will not move until I am satisfied with your answers. Is that clear?"

Potter started to nod, thought better of it, stopped, and forced out, "Yes."

"Where did you get that knife?" The boy twitched, and Snape renewed the pressure against his neck before backing off slightly to allow him to speak. He took longer to respond than Snape was happy with. "Well?" he barked.

"It… it flew at me. Days ago. When I came down to the dungeons. Nearly speared me."

Snape backed off, spun the boy around and pushed him against the wall again, feeling up his left side.

"Why, Professor, I didn't know you cared!" the boy – the _man _snarled. His eyes glittered with something dangerous, but he held still until Snape found and removed his wand, and held it, pointed at the… man…

"Explain, Potter. And make it good."

"Of course, _Professor_." Potter's eyes seethed with continued anger. He took a breath, paused, and blew it out, and the look on his face changed from anger to mere frustration. He raised a hand as if to run it through his hair, but stopped when Snape twitched his wand. He let his hand fall and met Snape's eyes in a clear message. _I'm telling you the truth. Read it._

"Are you suggesting I use Legilimancy on you, Potter?" Snape asked incredulously.

Potter hesitated, then nodded, and held his hands out to the side in a gesture of willingness. "I've got nothing to hide," he said, challenge and wary consent clear in his tone.

Snape took a step closer, narrowing his eyes, searching Potter's face for any hint of trickery. Finding none, he twitched the wand again, whispered, "_Legilimens," _and fell into Potter's mind.

…oooOOOooo…

The boy offered no resistance, in fact, seemed to lead the way. Snape followed, deferring attention to other bits of memory that flitted past. They arrived at the relevant memory… Potter wandering the corridor, lost in thought… a pulse of energy… a flash in his peripheral vision… the swift snatch of something out of the air as Potter, barely breaking stride, looked down at the knife in his hand.

Snape looked at the ephemeral Potter beside him. "You don't seem surprised," he accused.

"Watch," Potter said, and nodded at the memory-Potter, who stopped and peered back the way he had come, then looked at the knife in his hand, and continued, one hand running along the stone walls.

Snape watched as Potter allowed every memory having to do with the knife play out before them. He moved closer to where Potter's journal lay open on the writing table in the Slytherin dorm, the knife lying beside it, but the Potter at his side held out a hand to restrain him. "I'd rather keep my journal private," he said.

Having said that, of course, his mind immediately began flashing pages in front of them, filled with ink, his hand writing or pausing. The Potter beside Snape scrunched up his face in concentration, and the images sped by too fast for Snape to read anything, then paused. A parchment flickered onto the table where Potter sat, tears dripping onto it, smearing the ink…

There was a stabbing pain in Snape's head, and he found himself pushed not only out of Potter's mind, but across the corridor. He stumbled and fell, landing flat on his arse, the breath knocked out of him. Potter stared at him, panting, then sprinted to his side, landing on his knees, helping him to sit up.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean…"

Snape waved a hand to shut the blathering idiot up, but accepted the hand he stretched out to help him to his feet, once the boy had scrambled to a stand himself. "No harm done, Potter," he said as he got to his feet. "You have a right to limit my… foray… into your mind to the matter at hand."

Potter gawked at him. "You're…" He shook his head. "You mean that, don't you?"

Snape finished dusting himself off, refusing to look the boy in the eyes. "You are no longer my student. We are no longer at war. You are… an ally. I have no right to treat you as if you are the enemy." He forced himself to stand erect and look the boy in the eyes. "I apologize for my… intrusion. It was unnecessary."

"Yeah, but… how would you have known that if you hadn't looked?" Potter argued. He shrugged. "Anyway… no harm done. That is, if you're all right?" He looked at Snape anxiously. "Do you need to… to rest, or something? Or maybe a pain potion…?"

Snape growled. "I am _not _an invalid, Potter!"

The… man… threw him a grin. "Apparently not. That was fast work, disarming me like that. Will you show me how to do that?" He smiled up at Snape, apparently bearing him no ill will, something that Snape found baffling enough to make him frown - which was preferable to standing there, slack-jawed, lost in those eyes...

He turned his back to the boy and looked back down the hall, where he had thrown the knife. It was nowhere to be seen. "Huh."

"What?"

Snape turned partway back toward Potter and gestured him to follow. "Come," he said, and retraced their earlier footsteps, then turned them around to pace the corridor again. Just as he felt the resistance of the ward begin, he gestured Potter on, narrowing his eyes to watch. Sure enough, there was a flash, and the knife again spun, seemingly out of nowhere, to smack itself into Potter's waiting hand. And just as unconsciously as before, the boy automatically stuck it into the belt at his side, as if it belonged there.

He turned to look at Snape, looked down at his belt, and looked back up, a look of perplexity on his face.

"What is it?" Snape asked.

"Feels like it's… like it belongs there, you know? I almost feel naked without it."

"It's what you were looking for earlier, before breakfast, in my quarters, isn't it?"

"Was I? Yeah. Probably." Potter's hand unconsciously moved to protect the knife at his side.

Snape waved a hand. "It's alright, Potter. I do not intend to…" His voice slowed thoughtfully. "…disarm you…"

"What?"

He drew a breath to answer, then thought better of it. "Give me a while. I need to think it through and not draw any hasty conclusions."

"You'll let me know when you do, though, won't you? Draw a conclusion, I mean. I hate when unexplained things happen around me," Potter said, clenching his jaw in anxiety.

"I'll bet you do," Snape acknowledged sardonically. "Meanwhile," he said, gesturing further on down the corridor, "if you're up to it after this interesting… experiment, we have some hexes to dismantle."

…oooOOOooo…

The work was swiftly done, leaving them ample time to visit the infirmary prior to lunch. Madam Pomfrey pronounced both of them in fair health. "Not _good_ health, mind! Both of you need to put on weight and eat more nutritionally." She handed each of them sheets with instructions for exercise, rest, and nutrition. "I've instructed the house elves that you are to eat six small meals a day, so you can expect them to bring you snacks at midmorning, mid-afternoon, and before bedtime. I expect them to report to me that those snacks have been _consumed_," she emphasized. Neither of them mentioned Potter's nightmares.

"Poppy," Snape said quietly as he buttoned his shirt and pulled on his waistcoat.

"Hmm? What is it, dear?" she replied absently, waving her wand at the parchment on which a Quick-Quotes quill had recorded her notes as she examined him. It curled up and disappeared with a pop.

He waited until she turned to look at him. "Potter…"

Her eyes softened, and she stilled, giving him her full attention.

"…gets depleted after we deconstruct a hex. Are you sure he's…? He's as thin as a bowtruckle!" he complained in a thin voice.

She frowned. "Depleted? How? He seemed perfectly healthy a moment ago. Perhaps I should call him back…"

Snape stayed her with a hand on her arm. "Don't. He'll deny it," he said with an attempt at a sneer. "But he seems… exhausted – easily exhausted. And I…" He couldn't say it – couldn't acknowledge that he was worried about the boy. He didn't need to, though. Pomfrey saw right through his truculent complaints. She patted his arm.

"He _is _exhausted, Severus. We all are. Even you. You'd think weeks in a coma would be restful, wouldn't you? But all your energy went into healing… and I think all Potter's energy went into healing you, as well. He has potential, that boy. Well – he's not a boy any longer, is he? In any case, Severus…" She stopped at his skeptical look. "He _did _nurse you, Severus, surely you know that. Be that as it may, I'll keep an eye on him, and you will bring to my attention anything that concerns you – yes? Now shoo. You won't do either of you any good by skipping a meal!"

Potter had waited for him outside the infirmary, and paced at his side solicitously as they headed to the Great Hall for the mid-day meal. Snape snorted and shook his head, lengthening his stride until Potter had to double-step to keep up, which made Snape smirk in amused satisfaction. Potter eventually got the better of him – his stamina was not up to his usual standards, and the boy outpaced him, passing him in a purposeful huff, stomping off ahead of him. Which gave Snape the opportunity to observe something peculiar.

The staircases of Hogwarts shifted in some pattern known only to the castle, some pattern that suited the castle's purposes, as if it were sentient. That pattern always – _always_ – suited the purposes of the current Headmaster, as well, and under most circumstances, the goals of the faculty, particularly Heads of Houses. This allowed their swift, unimpeded movement, when trouble was afoot. The Headmaster was loyal to the castle, and the castle returned that loyalty.

But… _Potter_ moved through the castle with that same ease. Staircases swung in his direction, and moved to facilitate his progress, so that he never needed to wait, break stride, or take an alternate route. Snape had gotten so used to the castle adapting to _him_ that he hadn't noticed, with Potter at his side, that the castle adapted for _Potter_, as well. He added that fact to the information he was gathering in his mind, resolved to test his theory in the afternoon.

Thus it was that Potter led the way to Ravenclaw Tower, Snape having given the excuse for lagging behind of wanting to examine in more detail the progress on repairs to the corridors and staircases. There was no doubt about it – the school adapted around Potter's presence, moved _with _him, almost eagerly. The fact that it also facilitated Snape's progress was incidental, almost a given, something he did not question. Nor did Potter seem to question that he moved through the school with unprecedented ease, in partnership with it.

Snape found himself watching the boy's movements – the easy sway of his hips as he moved; the sometimes-jerky, awkward movements that he saw as alert, reactive, defensive; the way his fingers trailed the bannisters, the way his palm caressed the walls of the corridor as he passed. More than once, Potter slowed or stopped, leaned a shoulder into a bit of stone, stretched his hands to connect two sides of an archway, traced the shape of a bit of carving, set a bit of some guardian figure – armor or a gargoyle or stone soldier – more firmly into place, patting it and tracing a bit of detail… Potter was… making love to the school, Snape thought, and felt something stirring in him again, at the imagery. And… the school was making love back, brightening in Potter's presence, standing a bit firmer, as if coming to attention, and Potter, unconscious, accepted the magic that swirled in his passage, given and taken, some reciprocity evident in the relationship between wizard and stone.

It was enthralling to watch. It touched something deep in Snape's chest, warmed him, almost brought tears to his eyes. He forced himself to take a mental step back. _Collect the data_, he ordered himself sternly, and called to Potter to wait for him at the next turn.


End file.
